...thoughts expressed here are not necessarily final.

August 23, 2005 Back from abroad

Storytime. Only the names have been changed to protect the guilty.

I heard a story on my trip home this past weekend that bears retelling.

Seems one of my Mom’s friends had a little dog that followed her everywhere. The dog would go down the hill to the chicken coop whenever Miss Laurel gathered the eggs. While she cleaned the coop, the little dog would wait patiently under the tree for her to finish and then would proceed back up the hill alongside Miss Laurel.

One day recently the little dog died. It was about fifteen years old and had lived a long life. Miss Laurel loved that dog and she promised the pup that she would give him a good funeral.
But Miss Laurel, who is is nearly seventy herself, is known for her good works. She had promised to take an elderly friend to the doctor that very morning she discovered the dog was dead. So she proceeded to wrap the little carcass in a plastic bag and deposited him in her refrigerator freezer for later deposition.

While on her mission of mercy, a storm blew in.

Now Miss Laurel lives in an underground home- it is quite unique, but not nearly as much so as when it was built around thirty years ago. Most of the neighbors roundabout live in houses without basements. A few have storm cellars, but Miss Laure has made it plain that if a bad storm rises, the neighbors are expected to come to her house, which is readily accessible, since she always leaves the front door unlocked.

Late that night, as the storm lingered, and as darkness fell, Miss Laurel retired to bed with her hubby Lonnie. About 4 AM Miss Laurel was wakened abruptly by Lonnie. “Pig, (his nickname for Miss Laurel) Wake up! Wake up Pig! I smell smoke! Go check on it!”

Sure enough, several of the neighbors had taken shelter in the living room and one was smoking a cigarette. “Ho Miss Laurel, one said- this one is a wing-ding, if there ever was one.” Miss Laurel replied, “Now you know you are welcome – help yourself to anything in the kitchen, but I am going back to bed.”

Now around about Six AM there came a scream from the kitchen. Miss Laurel got up and ran in to find that one of the neighbor ladies had chanced upon the now frozen pup while searching for some ice for her drink.

The little dog got his funeral as promised the next day, as he was interred alongside the tree he had waited under many times by the henhouse down the hill. The rites were performed by her son Binky, as Miss Laurel was off helping some other friend in need.

Meditations from the Road