It's 9AM
How is it I can remember a theme song from a tv show in the 70’s so well?
Every. Single Word.
Sometimes, my brain seems to freeze, and it takes me a few moments to recall why I walked into a room.
Les jokes and says it’s because I’m getting old.
Yet, I can, just out of the blue, start singing Different Strokes or The Jeffersons with zero prompting.
Emphasis on the zero prompt, Les says.
Aprapo of nothing.
It came up in conversation because of the dog.
If you’ve been with me long enough, you know Gus.
Gus acts as my supervisor on the day to day operations of this tiny little company I run.
Which is, except for a free freelancers, only me.
Mostly sitting with fingers on keyboard. Or standing in this case.
Thinking about how to make stuff up.
Then switching gears into how to show people the stuff I made up.
Gus is a piece of fluff that is nine times out of ten a floppy dog.
He likes to lounge.
If I called him a lap dog, it would do a disservice to Yorkies, and other tiny teacup size canines.
Except for his daily walk, and constitutionals to the backyard, Gus has perfected the art of laying around.
He is an awesome guard dog though.
If someone walks past the front, he announces their presence with a loud series of warnings barks designed to protect the castle.
If that same someone were to walk through the front door, he would jump, scamper, lick and wag unto them until they tripped and fell.
I often remind him he is worthless as he climbs on the back of the sofa to perch behind me as I stand at the computer.
Often as I am rubbing his belly.
This week though, something has stirred the wolf in his soul.
Our backyard fronts a small lake. Just a sliver of a view really.
But our proximity shows us animals.
All sorts of creaturely visits. Possums. Raccoons. Turtles. Chipmunks.
And Rabbits.
Rabbits that made a little bunny nest behind the rose bushes against the fence.
Little cute fuzzy baby rabbits that grew to juvenile size.
Where Gus promptly found them and rendered them dead by shaking.
Our cute, fluffy ball of fur turned vicious killer.
Twice.
The first one he brought into the house and tried to hide so he could play with it later.
Like a serial killer.
I thought it was one of his stuffed animal toys.
The second I caught him in the back yard with as he tried to open it up and roll in the ichor.
Now, he’s obsessed with the back yard and the hunt for playmates.
He stands by the back door and whines, and when I let him out, he runs to the spot behind the rose bushes, hoping for more.
His canine mind is on the prowl.
Maybe he thinks he is protecting the castle from a rabbit incursion.
As fast as they multiply, the bunny revolution could overtake us before we even knew we were out of a home.
Perhaps I should be thanking the dog instead of barking commands at him to come away from the door and go lay down.
Does the dog know something I don’t?
Since it only happened this week, it’s still too soon to make a joke.
My attempted singing of “Kill the Wabbit,” was not met with smiles or laughter, though very few of my lyrical moments are.
It’s because I couldn’t remember all the words, I think.
I just kept singing the title.
In Elmer Fudd’s voice.
Maybe the dog isn’t the only one who is worthless!
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