Horror in McClelland Park

My sacrifices to Memnoch have paid off. Franklin’s dead arm is now relegated to mid-relief work. And yet the reassignment does not fill my smoke abused heart with joy. I prayed for retirement. But Memnoch, like the god of Abraham, moves in mysterious ways. The key difference between the two is Memnoch’s catholic approach to ritualistic sacrifice: anything handy will do. Not keen on slaughtering animals, I burn mutilated collection notices from Reader’s Digest. For some reason the company is under the impression that I owe $17.89 -- and have for years. Although my math skills have been described as theological, I’m guessing Reader’s Digest has invested more than $17.89 in its hopeless quest for compensation. If the supposed purchase was anything but a cookbook, I would have dashed off a check long ago -- out of respect for Ed McMahon’s sidekick repartee. There was a time when the thought of Ed knocking on the weathered front door, brandishing balloons and a poster-sized check, competed with Cameron Diaz as my favorite post-number masturbatory fantasy.

Since Ed’s death I no longer indulge in that particular strain of THC-induced auto-eroticism. The thought of opening the front door to find a decomposing celebrity is not only horrifying but the ultimate dolphin-flogging buzz kill. I suspect the penes of male prostitutes experience a similar reaction when trying to service Joan Rivers.
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I opted to do my intoxicated loafing on the front porch. I usually slouch like a sack of onions on the so-called patio. But the so-called patio is a wreck. Old leaves from last fall, wind-whipped cigarette butts and jagged pieces of a battered charcoal grill litter the filthy slab; and I must have dumped the cat’s crap box much too close for comfort. The slightest breeze reactivates the feces, creating an odor so foul it induces olfactory muscle memory. I’ve had to bury my face in the rottweiler’s butt to offset the nauseating stench. Keisha doesn’t seem to mind. She’s the large boned descendent of an ancient race. Although my History degree is rotting somewhere in the garage, I vaguely recall Roman nose-to-dog butt bonding was common back when Tiberius was buggering little boys.

My lifestyle is on public display when facing east. Neighbors zooming by in their pricey imports can’t help but take a nervous peek at the disheveled freak and his disintegrating spook house, no doubt wondering why I’m determined to drag down property values. Perhaps a jaunty salute of Big Gulp encased juniper berry and juice prompts them to question their sleep deprived bourgeois existence. I’d like to think so. The neighbors should be glad that I no longer weave the Yard Man about in neon blue Speedo, love muscle jiggling, beer can in hand. The neon blue Speedo has been replaced for a sheer white sun dress. It’s cool and protects wrinkles from damaging UV rays. And I dig the way it feels. When giddy I put it on and skip around the dead maple, “I’m the Happiest Girl in the Whole USA” blaring from barely attached outdoor speakers. Who said “Going Galt” is limited to a Russian psychotic’s wet dream?

I had just settled in when Opie came bounding through the tall grass. Opie is a nine year old Jack Russell, still full of manic terrier spark. He loves cat food, and knows that I’ll eventually turn him on to some Fancy Feast if he hangs around long enough. The cats are not fond of Opie. George, the tom, is an especially dangerous character. He’s either sharpening his claws to razor-sharp perfection or hacking up bird parts. Pat, his mother, hides her vicious instincts by pretending harmless domesticity. They set Keisha straight long ago. I shudder remembering how they rode her in circles, claws extended over the terrified dog’s eyeballs. Watching this primordial cruelty, frozen in place while two beasts forever scarred my noble companion’s self-esteem, is a memory forever etched in what‘s left of my mind. Even though Opie gave playful chase, I assumed they spared him because of his size.

Before I could reach down and give Opie a welcoming rub, he spied George crouching near the holly. In a flash he darted toward the deadly creature. Unfortunately for Opie he misjudged his lunge. George reached out and swiped his right paw across the terrier’s turned head. The sound Opie made was supernatural. Blood spurted from his ravaged ear, instantly besprinkling his white coat with bright red. The little guy was in shock, staring at me with glassy eyes. On wobbly legs he shook his head from side to side, blood spraying in all directions. George watched his evil handiwork with smug satisfaction. Because I was drunk, my reflexes were akin to bullets fired from Mike Nelson's underwater revolver. By the time I figured out how to defy gravity and escape a lawn chair, Opie was tearing off for home. The only thing to do was call Bob, Opie’s dad, and give him the bad news.
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Dénouement: Opie’s right ear was sewn back together; he’s reasonably okay. Bob said he’s never been so quiet.