Bud of the Baskervilles

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I posted this on blogspot almost two years ago before I had ever heard of WordPress or most of you people reading this. I think I even posted this on MySpace—to give you some idea of how fast things change. Anyway, it’s been lingering in my mind because it happened in the month of October. I’m glad it’s going up here, because I didn’t import it when I started this new site.

The part at the end about impaling the dog on the roto-tiller—rest assured, I’m not that crazy any more. Go ahead and let me have it, if you want. I’m just posting this exactly as I wrote it in ’08. And that picture is real. No enhancement. Gawd, my hair was short then. That’s my drunk face, by the way.

Bud of the Baskervilles

First of all, I’d like to explain two things: 1) The dog was, to the best of my knowledge, completely sober, and 2) This is partly Tessa’s ex-husband’s fault.

It may not show up on this photograph but the left-hand window of the double window alongside the tub is slightly clearer. This is because the dog in my arms had ripped out the screen a year earlier. Since the dog was only a year old at the time and was giving no indication of mending his ways, I decided not to replace the screen. The other screen is showing signs of wear, too. So, I’ll wait until this dog is some years older before spending money on the backyard screens.

It was a beautiful October evening. The flies had mostly settled down or died, so I had both windows open so I could listen to the songbirds while relishing my bourbon and Coke. How was I to know that Mike and Tessa’s decision, thirteen years ago to install a double window right beside the tub would eventually prove irresistible to Bud of the Baskervilles, here? And I swear that I did not daub his eyes with phosphorous to make them glow like that. That is sheer nuisance glowing from deep within his soul.

The son-of-a-bitch weighs fifty pounds, so the scratches he left on my legs are still healing. And I am giving thanks to the Lord every day that his claws did not reach higher. So is Tessa. Unfortunately, he did not become impaled on the tines of the roto-tiller when I tossed him back outside.

Why do these moments of chaos and disruption turn out to be your most cherished memories of a loved pet? Think this bastard is going to dial 911 when the car falls on me when I’m changing the oil? Hay-ell no! He’s not going to fetch the doctor when I get bit by a rattler. No way. But when Vic Miller, the county commissioner, comes to hand out campaign flyers, Bud will be there sniffing front and back. And I’m so used to smacking Bud that I damn near hit Vic in the nuts this year. No lie. That’s a fact! I’ve got two witnesses.