After a half day of snow and ice covered roads south of Chicago, the green and lack of white as we entered Alabama was to say the least, a welcome change. I was really beginning to mellow out as we rolled into the rest centre along the interstate.
I hustled into the restroom and had just settled onto the seat of the stall to commence an important operation when a southern voice inquired from the adjoining stall, "How y'all doin?"
Normally I don't carry on conversations of this nature. In fact the whole art of conversing while in the john seems to have disappeared along with the three-holer outhouse. But I thought this obviously friendly southern soul deserved a response, besides I was still elated to be out of the snow for a few months.
"Fine, How about you?" I shot back, wondering mildly how far this southern hospitality went.
"Great! What y'all up to," came the friendly reply.- quaint and to the point.
Again I was reluctant to reply, but didn't know how to properly break off the conversation at this point, so replied back hesitantly, "Travellin', same as you.”
"How's about I come on over there?" was the neighbouring response.
I freaked out. Who was this? The FBI running a sting operation or one of the stars of the movie Deliverance, on his way over to make me "squeal like a pig!”
"Not now, I'm kinda busy," I managed to stammer, desperately trying to speed things up and make my escape.
The reply from the other side of the barrier brought things into focus. "Listen Bud, I gotta call y'all back. The idiot in the next stall keeps answering all my questions."
What now? Hide in the stall until my neighbour departed or make a quick break for it right now. Who said I can’t move fast? Besides, the next rest stop is just another 40 miles south!
Welcome to the wacky world of Squirrel Pie. Over the coming months I hope to not only add new columns as they are published but add a collection of columns from the archives Enjoy. Regards, Jack Elliott
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Taking the plunge July 09, 2007
Squirrel Pie
by Jack Elliott
© Copyright
Up front, I want to gratefully acknowledge the love and caring given me by my wife, the Pearl of the Orient. If it wasn’t for the Pearl’s, supervision and suppression of my glutinous appetite, and attendant prodding to insure I get a modicum of exercise, I would probably be long dead. So, if you don’t like my musings, you know whom to blame.
However, at 4:30 in the morning, three times a week, I am not quite so generous with my praise.
“Elliott, roll your carcass out of the sack. You look like something off Wild Kingdom,” she states as I open one eye part way and survey the gloom out the window.
“…something like that anaconda that’s swallowed a pig! Let’s get cracking,” the Pearl continues, tossing my bathing suit at my still prone body. The odour of chlorine from the still soggy suit wends its way up my nostrils and permeates my brain, causing something close to consciousness.
“ Got everything? The keys, your wallet, passport, and swim bag?” prods the Pearl as minutes later we enter the garage.
“Of course I do! What do you think I am some sort of idiot?” I fire back indignantly.
After determining the keys for the truck won’t work in the van, I stagger back into the house to pick up the right ones, at the same time retrieving my wallet, passport, and swim bag.
We hit the entrance to the pool at the same time as a handful of other catatonic zombies, and mumble barely coherent greetings at each other. All except one. Unfailingly cheerful, Paul is all smiles, chuckles, and good humour. We mutter and glare, but there is no discouraging the manic insomniac.
Some split seconds after plunging into the pool, full consciousness finally hits along with the panic reflex to keep from drowning. Sputtering and choking, I stagger to the surface and start in to my routine.
“One…two…three… Only a half million more to go,” I think and settle down to a rhythm, all my muscles and joints complaining bitterly. After five minutes my teeth have stopped chattering and the sharp twinges have subsided to a dull ache.
Half an hour in, the endorphins are starting to kick in and I’m feeling great. I note with some pleasure the svelte form of the young lifeguard as she glides effortlessly around the pool eyeing the geriatric ménage churning up the water. I note her eyes keep drifting towards me.
“Must look pretty good for an old toot, to receive that kind of attention,” I smile, my ego swelling.
I turn up the pace a bit. She seems to notice. I turn it up a bit more.
I start my porpoise jumps, as high above the surface as I can manage. She’s really looking now.
I suck in my gut and head towards the sky.
The rotten old draw string on my suit protests by snapping as I break the surface.
As I continue up, my trunks head down.
I hit the water and in panic spread my legs to stop the complete escape of my trunks. I head for the bottom to complete the rescue. Someplace along in there, I realize I should shut my mouth and stop breathing. Choking spouting, and gasping like a harpooned humpback, I fight my way back to the surface, my dignity covered, barely.
Miss Lifeguard in all her sveltness is kneeling at the edge of the pool peering at me.
“Are you all right, sir?” she asks panic racing across her face.
Right then the endorphins stop working and a vicious charliehorse grips my left leg, drawing a moan of anguish from my now purple lips. I once again slip towards the bottom of the pool.
Quickly one of those svelte, strong arms, grasps my shoulder and steadies me at the pool edge.
“You should take it easier. That was a pretty strenuous workout for an old ma…, er, elderly gentleman like you. I thought you might be having a coronary,” exclaims the concerned voice of Miss Svelte.
But the look of horror on her face conveys the real truth, “ I thought I was going to have to give you mouth-to-mouth, you old toot! Gross! Eeeeyhew!”
My humiliation is complete.
The Garden Guruesome - July 4, 2007
Squirrel Pie
by Jack Elliott
© Copyright
by Jack Elliott
© Copyright
This is an emergency. It’s tomato staking and tie-up time and I’m fresh out of the necessaries.
No, not stakes. I’ve collected a whole supply from Scrounger- left over from last year’s cardboard and duct tape boat races, plus the ones people abandon on my yard when they decide driving them though my heart is more trouble than it’s worth
And it’s all my wife’s fault. Since the Pearl of the Orient stopped nursing, she no longer wears panty hose and every tomato expert worth their salt and pepper shakers, knows used panty hose is the best tomato tier-upper since sliced bread- toasted, buttered and with thick slice of tomato on it.
I cautiously suggested The Pearl might go back to work, for a few weeks each year to build up a stock. The reaction nearly gave the tomatoes frost-bite.
“You’re in the newspaper business, why don’t you run a want ad for some?” The Pearl queried, cautioning, “But don’t mention our phone number!”
I said I’d thought of that already, but even the ad department had minimum standards on what they would print.
“Why don’t you go down to the hospital and ask the nurses there for a few pair?” suggested the Pearl trying to off load the problem.
I headed right down the street, but a block short, I coasted to a halt. Visions of the Angels of Mercy lined behind the desk and taking bets on what emergency was prompting my visit this time went something like this;
“It’s another heart attack. Look at how he staggers!” says the excited new graduate as she anticipates her first cardiac arrest and use of the high voltage booster cables.
“Naw, It’s his prostate again. Let’s get out that half-inch diameter catheter. That’ll teach him to feature us in any more of his columns,” snorted Madame de Sade as she considered a piece of garden hose instead.
The old veteran just yawned and states the obvious, “It’ll be an enema, because we all know what he’s full of.”
Deciding to avoid that humiliation I try another tack. The gaggle of young ladies hurrying up the street are likely looking candidates.
“Excuse me for a minute ladies, have you got any old panty hose,” I blurted . Before I could apprise them of the reason for my request, the one on the left gave me a resounding slap.
“Pervert!” she spat and they proceeded to walk around my now stunned-into-silence presence.
“We should report him to the cops,” said one.
“I’ll bet he’s already on the sex offender list,” replied the other.
Still stunned I staggered down the street toward the Bakery. I figured maybe a cup of high test and a calorie-laden, forbidden, apple fritter, might restore my composure.
I encountered a more mature, sensible, female acquaintance, and adjusting my proposition, again asked about the availability of her pantyhose.
She blushed slightly, then in a husky voice replied, “Well, come on over to the house later on, Big Boy, and we’ll see what we can do.”
Relieved, my enthusiasm knew no bounds. “And my buddy Norm down in Barwick needs some too- to cover his giant sunflower heads to keep the blue jays off them. Would you have some really big ones?”
Her right cross had some beef behind it, but I did manage to pick myself up off the street unassisted. I didn’t bother pursuing her to clarify the situation.
So I guess, I have to make a public appeal. Used panty hose please. Send in a plain, unmarked, brown envelope. C.O.D.s not accepted, but you can pick up a few tomatoes later in the season.
And Norm, you better source your own supply!
The cost of laziness- June 20, 2007
Squirrel Pie
By Jack Elliott
©Copyright
“Elliott! That #$%& garage door won’t stay closed again!” my wife the Pearl of the Orient informed me rather forcefully, “Fix it!”
It seems retirement does rest easily on these weary bones and the Pearl has found me another chore to keep me from wearing out the new sofa.
“Perhaps,” I wondered half to aloud, “If you didn’t try making u-turns while backing out of the garage, the door wouldn’t be so temperamental.”
Then I remembered that was another door, another vehicle and another long past decade, never to be mentioned again.
“Let’s go take a look,” I suggested with great effort levering myself out of the post-breakfast nap position. Out to the garage we marched where the Pearl punched the down button and the door gracefully descended, its gears, pulleys and wires squawking in protest much like my knees. Sure enough just before it reached the floor, it stopped, lights flashed . Then with a growl and a clank it headed back up.
“See! I told you! It just doesn’t work” stated the Pearl righteously.
“Some morning I’m going to come out here and that door after being open all night, there’ll be a skunk in here and I’ll get sprayed. How would you like that?” continued the Pearl.
I snickered.
It was the wrong response!
So here I am, down at the Building Supply Centre ordering a new garage door, complete with opener. Visions of the new telephoto lens I have been lusting after are evaporating faster than the balance in the bank account. Fortunately, there just might be enough left to acquire a two-four. I’ll need it to drown my sorrow and adjust my attitude into the door assembly and installation mode.
The installation and assembly were gruesome to say the least. After a full day, numerous near catastrophe’s, and most of the two-four, the door was still not up. My neighbour shook his head in disgust. The van stayed in the driveway. The Pearl served cold shoulder for supper. I went to bed early.
First thing next morning, with a cup of double strength java, I sat on the deck and dug out the as yet unopened instruction manual.
“Oooooo! Aaaaah! That’s how you do it!” I was amazed at how simple this whole task should now be. I staple the instructions to the garage wall and spend the next two hours sorting out the various parts from the bucket I had dumped them into on day one. Then I disassembled the pieces I had improperly assembled the previous day. By 11 am I was looking for the balance of the two-four.
“Forget it!” was the Pearl’s only reply when I questioned her about the whereabouts of those last few bottles. Bowed but not beaten, I poured another cup of coffee and headed back to the task at hand.
It was amazing. Following the directions step by step, I managed to complete the assembly without incidence… Uh, except the sliced finger, the skinned knuckle, and the twisted ankle- when I fell off the ladder.
“Oh, Mr. Elliott, you’re funny!” chorused the kids from the daycare next door as I laid a benediction on all things mechanical as I sucked on the skinned knuckle. I’ll bet their parents will be really thrilled.
“Johnny, what new words did you learn at daycare today?” asks Mom.
“@#$%&!!,” says Johnny. I’ll expect company tomorrow. Perhaps a whole delegation
Anyways, the door is up. I invite the Pearl out for the inaugural closing.
Grandly without a squeak or a squawk, it descends towards the floor!
As it reaches near the bottom, it stops. Lights flash. A siren sounds. And up she goes.
The Pearl is not impressed
“It must just need adjustment,” I state nervously, my reputation as a handyman reaching all time lows.
I push the button and down it goes, again. And again just before it hits bottom, sirens sound and up it starts. But this time I see the problem.
Before the door is quite closed, a chipmunk darts out of the garage, its tail breaking the safety beam, and triggering a reversal of door travel.
I sit down on a box and cry. Thousands spent because of a chipmunk.
Two solutions present themselves. Cut the tail off every chipmunk on the property or move the safety lights up a ways.
I set them up so it will take a good-sized dog or small child to trip them. Cats, and other critters are in peril.
My mood is only lightened when I think of the Pearl closing her new door and squashing a nice plump skunk.
Gardening is a delight- June 27, 2007
Squirrel Pie
by Jack Elliott
© Copyright
Down here in Drizzle Creek, the earlier garden planning sessions over high-test coffee at the Bakery ignited an infectious enthusiasm and a run on onion sets that in two days flat wiped out the communities stock . Digestive upsets and bad breath should be reaching epidemic proportions any week now.
Giant Pumpkins are always a popular subject, with last years’ 1000 lb plus weight, it’s a starry-eyed goal for every hoe master with a plot to dedicate. Eltjo ‘Hard Luck’ Wiersema, president of The Giant Pumpkin Festival for the last decade or so was busy this spring doling out seeds from last year’s giants with a missionary fervor.
“Here’s one from the champ,” he whispered conspiratorially, slipping me the treasured seed with strict instructions for planting.
I tried my best, but giving me seeds is a near sure kiss-of-death for said seeds, so I had to resort to purchasing pre-started plants from the greenhouse. As a matter of fact I bought four with hopes at least one would make it.
“Where on earth are you going to plant that? We’ve only got a little vegetable garden,” queried my wife, The Pearl of the Orient, as a look of disgust was quickly replaced by a frown of worry.
“And don’t even think you’re going to put it in the flower bed,” she added shaking the hoe at the pumpkin seedlings threateningly.
“ Well, I’m chewing up a strip of lawn to expand our vegetable production, besides Len isn’t using his big garden and he said I was welcome to it,” I huffed as I headed out to borrow the neighbours rototiller.
“It’s on the fritz, but if you want to fix it up, have at it,” explained John as he proffered the cutest little tiller in captivity. We hoisted it into the back of my truck and I headed into the bowels of my garage to access some tools. Working my way through the jumbled mess, I had just about made the toolbox when a piece of trellis reached out and tripped me. The empty pails, planters, and garbage pails broke my fall, so the screw nail sticking out of the plank only went a half-inch into my palm.
Later disinfected with varsol and suitably bandaged with duct tape, I managed to complete the tune up and had the little beast running like a Ferrari. I set the governor up another couple hundred revs to provide the necessary extra horsepower for the tough sod and headed for the field.
She bucked and snorted across the soon to be extinct grass throwing roots, stones and chunks of sod about wildly. Needing the full strength of both arms to control the beast, the obvious solution, was to tie down the deadman safety lever thus devoting total concentration to tilling.
It worked fine for a couple of rounds, until I tripped over my shoelaces (bending over to tie shoelaces is difficult and tied laces is a highly over-rated dress protocol). I stumbled forward and the extra down pressure on the tiller jerked it clear out of my hands. From my prone position, I watched it race like a demon possessed, across the lawn straight for the Catholic Church. That is until it encountered the garden hose, which it proceeded to devour at a furious pace.- all 250 feet of it.
Satiated, the beast burped a couple of times and stalled. It only took two hours to cut the hose out of the tines and the pulled muscles in my back should heal in a couple months. The palm is fine as my tetanus shot is up to date.
On my way back from the hardware store with the new garden hose, I stopped to see how ‘Hard Luck’ was making out with his Great Pumpkins. I was surprised, but that’s a story for another day.
Another reason to put the seat down - May 2007
Squirrel Pie
By Jack Elliott
© Copyright
“Accck! Aaaaaagh! Alligators!” came the scream from the bathroom.
I thought my wife, the Pearl of the Orient had really lost it this time. After all we were not in Florida, but here, at home in Drizzle Creek.
The screaming continued as I dropped the grocery bags and headed for the bathroom. It was quite a site.
The Pearl, her bloomers around her knees, was screaming and pointing at the toilet bowl.
“Your thing! Jack! Your thing! It’s in there!,” she continued screaming, pointing and dancing around- at least a much as her dropped underwear would permit.
The Pearl’s command of the English language slips a bit when she get’s really excited so squeezing by her dancing butt I took a peek into the bowl to decipher what the ‘thing’ was. There doing an admirable breast stroke was Chip.
Let me explain.
On our return from the south we noted a new resident around the garage, under the deck, and occasionally disappearing into the air conditioner. It was a chipmunk.
Earlier in the day she had presented us with one of the members of her new family, a bold and curious little fellow I immediately named Chip. We have yet to see Dale. And kids being what they are, Chip had managed to invade our crawl space, and make his way up to the water hole for a drink. Thirsty business all this exploring.
The slippery slope of polished porcelain was more than he had bargained for and so now there he was, about ready to go down for the last time as he slowly circled and feebly tried to scramble out.
Realizing his desperate situation, not to mention the Pearl’s, I grabbed a potholder and dipped a nearly drowned Chip to safety. The Pearl demurely took her much sought after seat.
I removed Chip to the deck, leaving the Pearl in peace, and attempted some artificial resuscitation. It’s pretty hard to do mouth-to-mouth on a baby chipmunk, so a careful rubdown had to do.
When the Pearl reappeared, her mothering instinct kicked in as she appropriated Chip who was clearly in shock at this point.
“Oh, you poor little thing,” The Pearl crooned lovingly as she gently massaged some life back into the tiny body. In a couple of minutes he was dried off and appeared to have drifted off into an exhausted sleep.
“My, you gave me such a scare,” she concluded as she laid him snugly with his towel in a cardboard box to finish his snooze.
Chip’s eye opened sleepily and I’m sure I could hear him saying, “Gave you a scare! What about me? Here, I think it’s the worst day of my life. I take my first swim and I’m drowning. How could things get any worse and then a monster decides to take a dump on me! Hummmp!
When our neighbour, the Lady Known as Lou, stopped by a few minutes later, after a good laugh, she decided to check on Chip’s condition.
“Aaaagh! Aaaack!” she screamed as Chip exploded straight upwards, apparently not liking the idea of being disturbed from his nap. Chip couldn’t quite make the top of the box so I obliged him by tipping the box over at the edge of the deck and he flitted off into the shadows undoubtedly to find some more mischief.
Later that evening as the Pearl headed off to bed, she first rummaged in the broom closet and suitable armed cautiously prodded the bedding for any unwanted guests. Satisfied all was well she delivered her goodnight communication.
“Make sure you put the seat down!”
Ode to the Lion’s Tooth - May 07
Squirrel Pie
by Jack Elliott
© Copyright
It’s that time of year again when the lawn warrior girds himself for battle. Weapons belt bristling with digger, snippers, three varieties of weed killer, and other assorted instruments of war, the grim combatant enters the field to face and eradicate the foe. And don’t get me wrong, this is not a male only pursuit, many a mighty Amazon similarly equipped enters the fray with just as much zeal.
The foe, the Lion’s Tooth- perhaps you are more familiar with the French translation, dente de lion or the Anglicized, dandelion, is being unjustly demonized. True, the Lion’s Tooth is a tough, tenacious and wily adversary. But why call it an adversary at all? Look at its many positive attributes. It is one of the first greens of spring. A tasty and healthful spring salad important before we were used to getting our Vitamin C in capsule form. And wine, an inexpensive, legal, homemade high.
Environmentally a real friend. It’s long tap root penetrates deep into your over-compacted lawns aerating, recovering, and recycling all those nutrients you overzealous grassaholics have been pouring on your lawns and then leeching into our ground water with sprinkler mania.
Think of the joy those first yellow buttons must provide the hungry bee, desperate to replenish its depleted winter larder. Remember that when you spread the honey on your toast.
As potential for a livestock forage crop, cultivars of the dandelion hold real promise. And the roots may one day rival carrots, turnips, or potatoes in our supermarket produce section.
Oh you weed warriors if cold reason will not sway you, have you no heart, have you no soul? Do you remember not those childhood hours spent making daisy chains out of linked dandelion stems?
Or rubbing golden flower heads on a wriggling companion’s face, the resulting yellow tinge indicating that companion “liked butter”. All the while giving not a wit to mother’s admonition about grass stains on your Sunday clothes.
Or of soft, early summer days, sitting in a haze of fluff, the sun slowly dipping to the horizon. You hold up the perfectly formed seed globe, and then with one puff, scatter the down onto the evening zephyrs.
Finally, what human expression of love and tenderness is more aptly conveyed than a grubby, well stained hand, offering a few yellow posies with all the insight, wonder, and honesty of a small child exclaiming, “Ta, ta Poppa! Pretties!”
The Lion’s Tooth, all heart and soul.
Mid Life Crisis- Monday, April 1, 2007
Squirrel Pie
By Jack Elliott
© Copyright
Oppel still doesn’t know what prompted him to enter that barber shop. Perhaps it was just capricious fate, or maybe it was a cry for help- a mid-life crisis. Regardless, in the dark bedroom he now faced the terrifying consequences.
Oppel Strudel is Puddin Pye’s distant cousin who had immigrated to the Drizzle Creek District from Germany a couple decades back. Puddin’ had looked up Oppel during a visit to Germany some years prior. After all Puddin’ had reasoned what use was it to have relatives in faraway places if you couldn’t sponge off them for a couple of weeks while taking a vacation. Certainly stretches the vacation dollar.
During his visit Puddin’ had regaled Oppel with the wonders of Canada and the Drizzle Creek District, his own huge ranch, and the opportunities to become a cattle baron, just like him.
Oppel must have had the rose-coloured glasses still on when one day he showed up on Puddin’s doorstep, ready to purchase his dream ranch right here in Drizzle Creek District. In no time Puddin’ had toured Oppel around some of the prime beef operations of the District while managing to minimize Oppel’s exposure to Puddin’s own haywire, two-bit operation. The long and the short of it was, Oppel was in the cattle business in no time at all.
Now twenty years later, after collapsing markets, BSE border closures, floods and droughts, Oppel was perhaps a little disillusioned. What to do? How to inject a little enthusiasm into a sometimes-depressing reality?
The opportunity arose on a trip back from the ‘Peg. Oppel had stopped at the truck garage to have a few service items looked after. The work was taking a little longer than expected and as he loitered up and down the street he stopped in front of a barber shop.
Thoughtfully Oppel stroked his long, full, magnificient, bushy beard. He remembered whenever his wife Sugar Plum needed her self esteem stroked she would visit the beauty parlour for a new hairdo. Oppel being folliclely challenged on the top, thought perhaps a good trim of his beard would jolt him out of his blue funk.
Ten minutes in the chair made a new man of him. As he headed back to the garage he had a new spring in his step and felt the chill wind on his now near bare face for the first time in over twenty years.
The truck repairs were finally completed late in the day, so Oppel didn’t arrive home until late that evening. The house was quiet and dark. Oppel slipped in, undressed, and quietly slipped into bed taking care not to wake a soundly sleeping Sugar Plum. A real gentleman.
Sugar plum stirred in her sleep, and half-awake, placed a sleepy carress on Oppel’ newly trimmed face. Her hand moved again, and then again.
Oppel momentarily smiled to himself.
Sugar Plum came fully awake and exploded straight up out of the bed screaming, “Aieee! Rapist! Swine!”
Oppel giggled in the dark and sat up
Sugar Plum’s Tae Kwondo training kicked into automatic as she delivered a vicious chop through the dark to Oppel’s throat, and then shifted into her “death kick” stance.
“Nein! Nein! It is I, Opp…” squeaked Oppel from a badly bruised larynx, but too late. The “death kick” was on its way. A split second later it connected with Oppel’s jaw. The force sailed him clean off the bed, laying him out on the floor semi-conscious. His last vision before he passed out completely, was Sugar Plum standing over him threateningly with the large bedside table lamp.
“Oppel! It is you? What happened to your beard?” asked Sugar Plum amazed at the sight of a prone, groggy Oppel sporting barely a remnant of his once proud bush.
Happily, Oppel has recovered. His new motto, “Stay the course and away from razors.”
Sugar Plum has achieved Black Belt status.
The flowers of spring- April 07
Squirrel Pie
by Jack Elliott
© Copyright
Ah spring! Warm breezes, and green grass. The scent of bursting blooms, and what’s that other distinct perfume teasing our nostrils?
Down in Drizzle Creek one recent balmy evening Petr Pychuk – Puddin’ Pye’s Ukrainian cousin- was out walking his Golden Retriever, Ben. Suddenly Ben took off into the gloom, ripping the retractable leash out of Petr's hand when the dog hit the end of the reel. There was a loud "WOOF!" from the darkness as Ben encountered something.
Fearing the worst, Petr sternly ordered, "Ben get back here! Get back right now! NOW, YOU DUMB MUTT!!!"
Ben came loping back at his master’s command.
"Well, I guess the 300 bucks I spent on his training is paying off" mused Petr, remembering all the hours he had spent chasing the truant around Drizzle Creek.
But as Ben approached the street lamp, Petr noted his prize retriever had something firmly clamped between his jaws and that something was black and white and squirming. That's right- Flower, a nice, plump, skunk.
"No Ben! No! Drop it! Stop! Go away!" screamed Petr, his voice rising to a fever pitch while panic welded his feet to the ground.
Ben hesitated, but kept coming, dropping his proud tail. This didn't match up with those hard learned Obedience School commands Confusion over Petr’s screaming, overloaded his poor retriever brain.
"Get away! Get away, you @#$% stupid dog!!" Petr continued to bellow as his legs began to move and he managed a couple steps backward.
Finally all that obedience training kicked into automatic. Ben leaped ahead and proudly dropped the skunk at Petr's feet.
The skunk raised it's tail. Petr froze. Ben cocked his head and sat. Flower pulled the trigger. Dead centre, target #1.
"Aaagh! Aaaack! Gag! Gag!", screamed Petr as Flower now on full automatic, emptied the clip before scampering off into the darkness.
Ben escaped untouched and with better olfactory tolerance than Petr hesitated only a moment, before his training kicked back into gear. He charged after his escaping prey.
"No! No! You stupid dog!! choked Petr through his gagging as Ben again closed on Flower.
Flower fired, but "Click!", the clip was empty.
Ben nabbed him and headed proudly back to his master
Flower pinned gently, but firmly in Ben's jaws, managed to squirm just enough to reload.
"Aaagh!" screamed Petr as Ben once again dropped Flower proudly at Petr's feet.
Flower proved his first shot wasn't a fluke, once again emptying his clip on target at both Petr and Ben before waddling off into the darkness.
Ben had enough. Forgetting all his training, he beat a retreat for home and dashed into the house when his frantic scratching and barks prompted his mistress to open the door. Heading straight for the bedroom, he squirmed beneath the covers, before retreating under the bed, where no amount of coaxing or threats could extricate him.
Petr, now stripped naked, stood in the centre of the room and roared himself hoarse before getting out the toolbox to disassemble the bed. Finally exposing Ben, he grabbed him by the collar and dragged him out to his chain on the clothesline.
The neighbour reported a peeping tom. Minutes later the sweep of headlights accompanied by sirens and flashing beacons, exposed the still naked Petr trudging back to the house.
“My god, Sarge. It’s a sasquatch!” exclaimed Ticket Tom as he unlimbered the shotgun and threw down on the perp.
The cops fortunately were down wind so didn't have any trouble with Petr’s explanation, particularly when Petr's pickup rolled in, his wife in possession of every can of tomato juice in captivity.
The deodorizing is complete. The new furniture has been delivered. But Petr's wife still will not answer the door!
Petr never walks the dog anymore!
And Ben has gone delinquent, running off at every opportunity. So much for obedience school!
Ticket Tom is still having nightmares featuring boar sasquatch.
The ten-yard dash- April 07
Squirrel Pie
by Jack Elliott
© Copyright
Mo Pye, Puddin’s cousin and his wife Giggles, from Hooterville, long time winter migrants to the Beach, have their paper delivered. Mo has cut down all hedges around their condo and erected a safety net so even the strong arm of their delivery person couldn’t loft the paper over onto the roof. Mo is fairly sure his delivery will be reliable and on time. Because Mo has to have that paper first thing!
Venturing out onto the deserted court, he makes a ten-yard dash for the paper and quickly retreats to his warm bed, to peruse the sports page. Only after an hour of reading does he rise and dress for the day. His night clothes are those provided by God.
Grabbing his ratty old bath robe on the way out is a little dangerous as Koko, their pincher likes to sleep on it and has been known to nip anyone bold enough to try and evict her from her security blanket.
“Well, what the heck, the courtyard is deserted this early in the morning,” was Mo’s reasoning for foregoing the robe. Besides, who likes getting bitten this early in the morning.
The new crop of post-Christmas snowbirds however, were now at the Beach in force. The wolf whistles of the Pearl and her walking companion, immediately cleared the morning cobwebs from Mo’s head, just as he, sans robe, bent over to pick up the paper.
Mo jerked erect, immediately feeling the muscle-pull in his lower lumbar. It sent a bolt of pain clear from the top of his head to his toes. Trying to cover himself, quite unsuccessfully- it was only a weekday, not the bulky Sunday edition- Mo shuffled, backwards as quickly as his screaming lower back would allow.
His butt contacted the cold, dew-covered, steel of the now closing door, prodding Mo into another startled jerk forward. The click in his lower back was accompanied by another louder click as the safety latch on the door engaged.
Mo pushed back against the latched door, wailing, “Giggles! Giggles! Open the door! Nooooww, pulleeeease!”
Giggles jerked open the door and grabbing a fistful of the hair on Mo’s back, propelled him backwards into the privacy of their condo.
The Pearl and her walking companion were laughing so hard they nearly wet their pants.
Mo didn’t appear for the paper next morning. He was stretched flat in bed, his back protesting loudly at the slightest move.
“Giggles, could you fetch the paper for me, pul-lease?” he whimpered in his best puppy dog whine.
When Giggles with a snort whipped open the door to comply, a bevy of flashes exploded nearly blinding her.
Word had spread and the Paparazzi were lying in wait.
It wasn’t really sexual harassment or exploitation. It was just the Scrapbooking Club was running a contest for the most humorous candid photo. Mo’s physique and expression, the Pearl had explained, was sure to win the “Gut-buster” award.
Mo was last seen at the local Wal-Mart viewing the pajama offerings.
Spent Rounds- May 07
Squirrel Pie by Jack Elliott
© Copyright
It was qualifying week at the Bay. That's where OPP- Ontario Pampers Patrol- officers, from the great NorthWest come to prove they are still proficient with their side arms. Desk bound Sergeants and Corporals, and lowly constables driving cruisers with butt-sprung seats arrive en masse at The Bay to burn a little cordite and release six months worth of frustration.
By noon they are half through the qualifying rounds. A dozen clips apiece have been pumped through their Glock semi-automatics. They’ve been stripped, cleaned, reloaded and holstered- officers as well as weapons.
Ties have been straightened, moustaches so thin and sharp they could take out an eye, have been trimmed and waxed. Pumped up on burnt cordite, testosterone levels- even in the female officers- is in the upper danger level. Their hunger is a ravenous beast demanding to be satiated, as they pile into vans and head to the local café.
Our finest strut in levelling their steely glare upon the locals loitering over their burgers, fries and coffee. Into the main dining room they swagger, swinging out chairs, with a well-polished, practiced toe. Another quick glance around for any suspicious perps, is followed by a slow but deliberate settling into the chairs. Holsters are patted and adjusted into ready access, before taking up the menus.
“Steak sandwich, very rare,” orders Ticket Tom his moustache twitching nervously, “I prefer my meat raw.”
Similar orders are issued all round. Piercing, probing, unflinching surveillance continues to sweep the rest of the patrons of the restaurant, as appetites wait on the chef. The food arrives. Another sweep of the room is completed before knives and forks swing into action and the pride settles into devouring the wildebeest.
Now the burnt druggie, Hapless Pye, who had tumbled out of the freight car at the CP siding across the road wasn’t in tune with the local calendar, and in fact didn’t even know where The Bay was. He just knew he was dry, hungry and broke. He’d lost his last meagre stash of weed, jumping the freight a day and a half earlier, without hope of making another score before he hit The ‘Peg. All he wanted right now was something to eat, drink, and a grubstake to take him on down the track.
In a haze he slouched into the restaurant, focusing only on the cash register and the display of chocolate bars behind it. The waitress came swinging out of the kitchen with the last order, Ticket Tom’s extra rare steak sandwich, and right into Hap’s field of vision.
Without thinking, Hap, his usual modess operandi, he grabbed the steak knife off the platter with one hand and waving it threateningly, grabbed the steak sandwich with the other, and ripped a generous bite off it. The waitress was momentarily stunned into silence at Hap’s assault.
“Migawd, this meat’s still raw!” sputtered Hap, still trying to masticate the offending steak.
“Empty the cash register,” ordered Hap, further threatening the waitress with the steak knife.
The scream of the waitress was pretty much synchronized with the plate crashing on the tile floor.
The next sound was twelve chairs, tumbling back, twelve Glocks clearing leather, and the snick of twelve safeties being released.
“Freeze, sucker!” twelve officers snapped in unison.
Hap’s eyes widened finally taking in the full import of the situation he was facing.
We’ll never know if Hap deliberately hit the deck or if the waitress slipped on the fries she had just dropped, but the end result was she and Hap landed in a tangled heap on the floor in front of the counter and were joined on the floor in a split second by the other patrons, ranged along the window booths, in the line of fire.
The 9mm Glocks went into action emptying their clips in short order. When the smoke cleared, and the last of the shell casings clattered to the floor, the only apparent casualties were out front- the two police vans, a Kenworth pulp truck, and of course the plate glass windows.
After the first few rounds Hap’s synapses had begun firing in the full automatic survival mode and hesitating only to grab the remains of the steak sandwich, he scrambled initially unobserved out the front door.
“There he goes!” shouted Ticket Tom waving his pistol at a fleeing Hap who was now legging it across the lot towards the highway. Hap his long hair flowing straight back, was making six-foot strides as his skinny frame fired by pure adrenalin focused only on the open door of the boxcar of the train now pulling out of the siding.
Inside the restaurant, twelve Glocks lined up on target.
Twelve triggers were squeezed.
Fortunately for Hap and the remaining plate glass window, twelve hammers dropped on empty chambers.
With a final tremendous leap, Hap disappeared into the bowels of the open boxcar.
The ensuing internal investigation of the discharge of side arms tied up all remaining officers in the NorthWest for the rest of the day, so Hap never was apprehended.
It is however, reported the incident scared him into sobriety and onto the path of righteousness. He was last seen supervising a soup kitchen and trying to save straying souls.
At the restaurant in the Bay all weapons must now be checked at the door and no more extra rare steak sandwiches.