BRAINPAN LEAKAGE

“So… What do you think,” I asked.

“Well,” My friend said. “He’s an Australian Cattle Dog, right?”

“Yep,” I replied. “That’s exactly my point.”

“Yeah, I hear you,” he said with a nod. “It doesn’t look like Australia at all, does it?”

“Not to me. That’s why I wanted you to look at it.”

“Why me?”

“Well, I’m thinking there must be a reason, and since you play RISK a lot, maybe you’d have some insight.”

“True. There is that…” he mused.

We were standing at the doorway to my kitchen. This was several years prior to the gut remodel, so the configuration was less than stellar; not to mention that the decor was already 10 years out of date when E K and I purchased the house.

“Well, I don’t really think he’s trying to take over the world or anything… What do you feed him?” My friend asked.

“Dog food… Maybe a few table scraps,” I said.

“Spaghetti?”

“Not that I recall. No lasagna, or anything like that either,” I replied. “You don’t want to spill a beer around him though. It’ll be gone in nothing flat.”

“Foster’s?”

“Doesn’t seem to matter.”

“Hmmmmm…”

Quigley, the Aussie Cattle Dog was sitting in front of us, a piece of linoleum hanging from his mouth and his tail thumping against the floor. He seemed particularly proud of himself – and, most especially, proud of the rather large map of Italy he had somehow managed to create by tearing up sections of the godawful floor covering.

“Well, if you believe in reincarnation, maybe he was Italian or something in a past life,” my friend offered. “Or, maybe he was a cartographer…”

“Or an interior designer,” I added. “That linoleum is pretty ugly.”

“True,” he agreed. “So, how long did it take him to do this?”

“Well, he did the outline this past Monday,” I said, then pointed and added, “But he just keeps going back and working on that one little section over there. “

“Well, that makes perfect sense,” my friend said with a nod.

“Why?” I asked.

“Simple. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

Quigley, the Australian Cattle Dog, really did exist. In fact, Quigley the ACD in the Rowan Gant books is based entirely on the real life pup. While the preceding conversation is an embellished version of the truth, the Quigster really and truly did rip up a portion of our kitchen linoleum when he was a puppy. And, for several weeks, it looked uncannily like a map of Italy… Of course, not being one for sitting still, Quigley eventually expanded the Kitchen Atlas to look much more like Eurasia before we finally began our remodel.

More to come…

Murv

Well, it seems I screwed up.  Nothing so bad as to warrant a beating from E K… Well, scratch that, actually. E K never really seems to need a reason to hand out beatings… But, be that as it may, I think I escaped the wrath of the Evil Redhead for this particular infraction.

Maybe…

You see, I entered the wrong date into the post scheduler for my most recent blog (Mindy, Hold The Mork…) and therefore it deployed a day early. Now, normally folks would think of this as a Christmas in August sort of thing. You know, early present and all, but that just isn’t how my luck runs. Nope. Not in the least. It seems Anastasia, (yes, that Anastasia) who is apparently taking EVIL lessons from E K, informed me that if this premature post-aculation meant she was going to have to wait an extra day in between blog entries that I had better write a “bonus blog” or she would complain to E K and then help her do bad things to me. Of course, we all know where that will lead, and my insurance carrier is ready to drop me as it is…

So, as an act of self-preservation, after spending much of the day cowering in the corner with Satan, who still can’t seem to shake this morning’s Redhead Rampage, I figured I’d better make something… errr… ummm… write something up. So, since I already had notes on hand for the continuing adventures of Karen and Mindy, I figured what the hell…

It was a Thursday. A Thursday like any other Thursday, except that Mindy had dressed down for the day and Karen was in a mood. Now, granted, Karen was always in a bit of a mood, what with wanting to shoot everyone, but she was actually a bit more surly than usual. She might have even been carrying explosives in her purse, but I wasn’t about to ask.

The conversation had been raging on about blog entries and humorless folks for several minutes, and was now starting to wind down. I had no more finished jotting a few notes about the West county water issues than Mindy pointed at me and exclaimed, “Murv! You aren’t going to blog about that are you?”

I shrugged. “Why not? It’s funny.”

“You want funny?” Big K asked.

“Sure, but I think we’ve pretty much worn out the whole gun thing,” I told her.

She huffed then cocked her head to the side and said, “Oh yeah, well what about underwear?”

Now I was intrigued, but by the same token I was unable to hold back my compulsion to pun.

“Depends,”  I quipped.

“Yeah, real funny, Murv. Don’t make me shoot you.”

“Yeah, okay, so what about underwear? I’m wearing tighty whities.”

“Murv!” Mindy yelped.

“Hey, I actually used to get that question and booksigning Q&A’s.” I shrugged. “Now I just get it out of the way from the start.”

“People really asked you that?”

I nodded. “Yep.”

“Shoulda shot ’em,” Karen added on cue, just as I’d expected she would.

Mindy spoke up again, directing herself to Karen. “So, is this about that guy? You know, the one you yelled at?”

“I yell at everyone,” Karen replied.

“I know, I know,” Mindy agreed. “But isn’t this the story about that guy with the pink pants?”

“Yeah,” Karen answered with a nod. “Pink pants and bright green little boy underwear.”

I was no longer intrigued. Now I was just mildly disturbed, however I simply couldn’t stop the words from tumbling out of my mouth. “I know I’m going to regret asking this, but how did you know what color his underwear was?”

Karen’s voice was as deadpan matter-of-fact as I had ever heard. “Because he had his damn pink pants pulled down below his cheeks.”

“Ass cheeks?”

“Well yeah…” she answered, sarcasm heavy in her voice. “They’d look pretty damn weird up around his face cheeks, don’tcha think?”

I held up my hands in surrender. “I was just asking.”

Karen shook her head. “And you write books for a living? Sheesh. You been drinking West county water too?”

I ignored the jibe and asked, “Okay, so I have to know… How did you see this? Did you follow him into the men’s room or something?”

“No. This was in the meat department.”

Now, there’s something I forgot to mention folks – Karen works in the meat department at a local market.

“Rump roast then,” I said.

“Wasn’t on sale that day.”

“I was joking. Who’s been drinking the water now?”

“My gun is in my purse you know.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“Tell Murv what you did,” Mindy interjected, trying to avoid bloodshed. She seemed far more excited about the story than Karen. But then, Mindy was definitely the excitable one. Karen just approached everything with calm detachment before pulling out a gun and killing it.

“I went and got my knife,” she said.

“No gun?” I asked.

“I was at work. Can’t bring guns into work, dammit.”

“Oh, I see.”

“So, I got my big knife. Not the little one. The really big one. Then I went over and told him he needed to pull up his pants because the rest of the customers didn’t want his butt germs on their dinner.”

“So did he?”

“Nope.” She shook her head. “He gave a bunch of attitude. Told me his butt didn’t have germs, which is a crock because everybody’s butt has butt germs. Doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know that.”

“And you put up with him giving you attitude?”

“Hell no. I showed him my knife.”

“Ahhh, so then he pulled up his pants?”

“No. Then we had a wet cleanup in that aisle.”

I raised an eyebrow and began considering my options for escaping the table if I started feeling any more alarmed than I already was. I tried to keep my voice calm as I asked, “You killed him?”

“Oh hell no. Didn’t have to. He peed all over himself.”

“Ahhhhh… Okay.”

Karen shrugged. “Yeah, it was kinda funny. Anyway, then I went and put out some more chickens.”

“You mean like whole roasters and fryers?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

I took the opportunity to divert the topic toward recipes. “Since you brought up butts, have you ever made beer butt chicken?”

“You mean where you stick the can up the chicken’s butt? Oh yeah, love it.”

“I just don’t know how you do that,” Mindy announced.

“What?” Karen said, incredulity in her voice. “You just stick the can up its butt and put it on the grill. It ain’t hard. You do have beer out in West county, right?”

“Ewww,” Mindy replied, scrunching up her face then shuddering. “I couldn’t do that. I’ve never even bought a chicken.”

“You haven’t? Are you a vegetarian?” I asked.

“No,” Mindy replied. “I eat chicken, I’ve just never bought one.”

“Well what the hell do you do?” Karen asked, coming upright in her seat. “Steal ’em?”

“No,…” Mindy began, trying desperately to explain.

“I shoulda known,” Karen continued, talking right over the top of her. “Damn West county people. I bet you wear green underwear too…”

More to come…

Murv