Dinking Coors in my back porch and sitting in his rocking chair our storyteller gives another picture of the uncomplicated rural America that we love so much...
Remember Willard from the “Bouncing Lilies” story? Then you remember his black, enormous and clumsy dog, which shortsighted Willard in a fit of moonshine happiness saw the puppy dog, sleeping on a white rag, in overlapping sections of black and white and had given it the name of Tiger which only Willard could find uproariously funny.
As usual when the summer afternoon get too hot, you go and sit in the rocking chair by the under the shadow of the back porch with a cooler full of crushed ice and a few Coors to lubricate the stomach plumbing.
And, of course, minding my own business as I went at it back and fort.
The novelty of the trampoline in Willard’s back yard was dead and long gone, but not before the circus came to town with an horde of children screaming, laughing and landing on their asses and laughing even more.
During the few weeks (three and two days) of the children (and some adults late at night) shaking everything they had inside, it wasn’t possible to be outside the house, they made more noise that a bad dream in a Nashville Grand Ole Opry.
But things had come to “normal” again, with the trampoline used as a kind of canvas roofed storage for putting things out of the way.
During the Great Bouncing Festival, no cats, dogs, chickens or anything not on two legs was sighted.
Even the birds took to fly very far away around that crazy world below, maybe wondering if WWWIII had started and why nobody had told them.
But now, after the big black hole had stopped attracting victims, a cool beer in a rocking chair surrounded by a tranquil but humid hot world seemed a Paradise.
That scrawny orange cat was going around the tomatoes plants in search of the raiding forest little mouse.
Of the black cat I haven seen not even its shadow since the orange cat went bananas meowing Geronimo! and charging like a pissed off banshee.
I saw that the orange cat was successful on its mouse chase because he was putting weight around its ribs.
Willard’s dog would, by the time I came to the porch, already sleeping his siesta like he wasn’t an American born mutt but an illegal from the other side of the border.
But I had seen him for the last two three days, Willard’s wife told the missus that the bitches in town were in heat and that the dogs boys were going around searching, for one available, carrying a big juicy bone.
Our town has a zillion dogs and few bitches, boys preferred because they don’t fill the house with a litter and more mouths to feed.
So, when heat came, it was like a Bones United bachelor party with only one stripper at hand, like that dance until last chair.
Tiger, Willard’s dog, wasn’t to be in peace until his ashes were tossed but well, and considering that they can smell two-thousand times more that we can do it, the aroma of a bitch in heat would have drove everybody crazy if we could and the missus would have been sleeping on the roof.
But we were talking about Tiger, didn’t we?
I saw Willard go in the forest with a shotgun, he ain’t no dog with him, and he was the one for wild turkey on his menu, his missus wasn’t, because she was the one to pluck and cook twice a month Thanksgiving dinner during summer.
I most have dozed a little after the nine…or it was the eleven Coors? When all hell broke, apparently, inside the woodland was blue murder calling out.
Willard had been answering Natures crap call, because he came out from the timberland with pants and underwear around his ankles and no shotgun, trying unsuccessfully to run a little and hop forward a little more, look over his shoulder and try to run yet a little more but this time…faster.
Trailing back Willard out of the woods a black-bear cub slightly bigger than Willard’s dog Tiger that had its front paws around the cub’s hinders, humping the little bear with all it’s got and holding for life like a rodeo rider on a bull.
At last Willard in exhaustion fell flat on the muddy path leading to the house, as the panicked cub charged towards the perfect lined rows of tomatoes plants like a damp-roller going wacko to make some ketchup, while Tiger was, I think, smiling for all its worth for the ride.
The orange cat, not being a bitch in heat and with no intention to become one shot from there, being in the way of the coming horny runaway train, like he was fueled by NASA.
When a primal, enraged roar made the last Coors in the cooler to clink in terror as a black bear mother came out of the high bushes like a bad dream.
Tiger the dog, went in a split of a second from a pleasant astronaut space walk in the horny universe to a pop-out and get away from whoever was charging back with its nose pointed due north or wherever, following the orange cat escape route like a moon shadow on an sun eclipse.
The little bear cub stopped on its tracks thinking Mommy wasn’t screaming because she was pleased and run for dear mother just in case it will please her.
With the cub again at her side, she commanded the offspring back into the woods, not before turning around a couple of times and telling us what she thought about our shenanigans.
Willard, feeling safe, was up like a pitiful scarecrow with a muddy pecker.
I took another Coors and I don’t know why I though about bouncing love.
Deputy Dave Jenkins sets out to find the murderer of the local high school principal, aided by a voice from the grave that is sometimes helpful and sometimes misleading.
"Murder isn't usually this funny."
Amazon reviewer
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