Fuzzy teeth?

Groggily he awoke to the announcer exclaiming the perfection of a ball landing. Rolling toward the table, he picked up his dentures which prtially obscured the cover of a National Geograpic with some large cat featured.  A puzzled look crosses his brow, as he thought he had placed the teeth next to the Pepsi glass.  Slowly arising, he places his teeth into their intended orafice, runs a hand through his rumpled hair and heads toward the voices he hears in the next room.  From around the corner she spots him, t-shirt untucked, chinos in a state of dishabille guaranteed to make a plumber proud.  His eyes scan the group, noting that the sheltie pups were piled in various states of sleep, their mother watching over them.  A conversation revolving around the lesson just completed, the control and flexion work necessary for the coming week; was under way.  His daughter, clad in black riding tights, with little flecks of horsehair over her legs, was listenting intently.  Her hair showed signs of being captured under a helmet, an overly large t-shirt, hole in the shoulder due to an errant pair of Morgan teeth searching for snacks, was curled on a chair, drinking water.  Her instructor (and owner of 3 of the 4 pups, and their mother) was demonstrating with her hands; drawing concentric circles on the table with her fingertip in an ever-increasing radius. The only person to notice him was his wife, who quickly picked up her coffee cup, masking all expression.

He clears his throat, then states "my teeth are furry. I know I put them by my glass, but when I just woke up, they were moved, and are now furry".  To this he recieved no respose, had he been more awake, or focused, he would have noticed the quick glances exchanged by the three at the table.  The girl quickly reached for her glass, ducking her head and concentrating on the liquid contained wthin. He repeats the first statement, sounding not ulike Sherlock Holmes without the accent, and adds "would anyone know how they came to be this way? Or, better yet, who is going to tell me what happened?".  Three pairs of human eyes turn toward him, and Follie (the mother of the pups) raises her head to look at him as well. The pups, alerted into movement by the new voice in the room, lift their heads sleepily, first to their mom, then to him, then proceed to chew on each other, as puppies will. The only voice to break the silence was Sue, "I'm sorry Larry, what did you just say?".  Perfect combinations of concern, politeness and innocence captured in her voice, impressive demonstration of control.  His wife merely glanced up at him, over the rim of her mug. As the pups were stirring and venturing in search of more trouble, as  one went to the girl, and proceeded to pull on the ankle of her sock, smelling as it did of horses.  The girl, avoiding all eye contact, leaned over to play with the pup, goading the others into displays of one-upmanship and jealousy.

Hitching up his pants with a loud sigh, and some muttered comments to which the clear words were collusion and liars, he bent down to the Follie: "anything you have to say about this Fee dog?" he asked her.  Her response, in the way of Shelties, was simply to huff out a noise sounding faintly reminiscent of 'hamburger'. "I am going to get to the bottom of this, and one of you will tell me how this happened" he stated in a sharp voice. Instant images of deerstalker caps and magnifying glasses popped into my head, and a small giggle escaped my lips. He immediately turned to me, the full force of his inspection and anger centred on that giggle. "I'm laughing because you asked the dog for an answer; not only is that laughable, but futile. Perhaps if you rethought your part in this, leaving your teeth out which is just so totally gross", emphasizing this point by a complete look of disgust "you too would find it funny".  "Just what part did you play in this?" he asked in an ever-increasing tone.  

The interrogations continued, similar to those performed by the SS or Gestapo in wartime, his focus so narrow and intent that each denial was treated with increasing disbelief and scorn.  The only props missing were a blinding light, manacles to tie the interrogated to the chairs and the constant "thwack, thwack" as the riding crop hit the side of the tall boots.  Neither Sue nor his wife cracked however, and the whole display of his dominance and logical methods of dedcution were reduced to nil. A pathetic display of a man, shabbily clad, circling in his own incompetance and impotency.

Horses cared for, I returned with the pups to find him again, napping on the sofa, teeth next tothe Pepsi glass.  Immune to his constant displays of disgustingness that only a thirteen year old can see, I sighed, reached down to scritch Magoo  behind the ears, coaxing him back to the room in which Sue and my mother sat.  A decision was made to load up the car, and the three of us would head over to the ice cream stand, with the dogs.  Loaded up, dogs in various positions over and around me in the back, my mother and Sue in the front, Sue driving the car erupted with hysterical laughter as we left the driveway.

Sue catches my eye in the rear-view mirror, "well Watson, shall we break down the chain of events?"

Not three hours before, after a very long and protracted play session involving snacking on horse manure, chasing brooms, and running in circles during my lesson, the pups were settled into a nap.  We were going over the same lesson, drinking water and coffee, and discussing the work to come. Into the room entered Magoo, the mischievious pup, withe the largest smile known to dogdom.  He marched in proudly, head held high, tail wagging, a little spring in his step, and a complete pair of dentures dellicately grasped in his teeth ...smiley side out.  After smothering the laughter and recovering the teeth, my mother gently placed them back on the table, not near the Pepsi glass, but on the National Geographic.  The mystery was solved, and I can still laugh like a fool when I picture the puppy smiling at us. 

I am a thief ...

Oh not of anything interesting.  No, I don't have the missing millions from Iraq, or the paintings from the Gardiner Museum.  I don't even have a real grasp on where Rick Perry's brain cell went to die.  


But, a thief I am nonetheless. 


Emotions, phrases, experiences, trials, tribulations.  All of these I steal from those I know and encounter.  Not to take them away - but to stash them into this little box of "fodder", to be mulled over in quiet times.  Perhaps to include in a story or an idea, that moment of triumph that spurs on a coincidental fearless jolt of energy within me.  


See, I am a writer. Sure, at the moment I am using the word, unadorned and perhaps a bit softer than the other I am's that I could announce.  


But, despite it's being smaller, and somehow "less" it is none of those in import or investment from my perspective.  


As I come to grips with using that as one of the many labels that I can whip out at any moment to give a small descriptive of "who I am"; I also have learned that thief is possibly the one thing that best fits that new me, as it can fit any who have been "writers" before or since. 


The sum total of everything I read, hear, see and do is also somehow, somewhere informing the words I put down here that you, hopefully, read.  And, when something seems familiar, a turn of phrase or the outlines of a situation you encountered you will look back and realize that writers of fiction and fancy are, 
above all, 
thieves. 

Stepping from ennui

It is a curious facet of this thing, this drive to write.  Ennui does raise it's ugly head far more often than it should.  Ennui.  Great word.  That 'meh' feeling with everything.  Funny that it is only a 'meh' feeling with writing.  Writing something worth committing to paper.  Writing something that makes me understand better the compulsion to put it on paper.  For it is a compulsion for me sometimes I think.  There are multiple times a day I think 'that would be good to write one'.  Mull it over for some time, create a line that encapsulates the feeling.  


But then comes the time to commit.  To take that thought and run with it.  Not a huge fan of the 'edit' or the prewrite - often my first step in dancing with a topic is to open the "Create a Post' window and tap away at the keys.  More often than not, of late, the window was just as quickly closed for lack of interest after a few paragraphs were tapped out. 


Tapped out.  That is exactly how it's felt of late.  No interest.  No real sense of purpose. Putting it all down and out there feels so self pitying and attention seeking.  But - it's real. It's there.  That who cares and why should they. 


Then I realized.  The who, well - it has to be me.  That if I want to make something of an idea, that the process, the thought, the writing, the taking the step is what is really the important bit. 
The rest will come. Or maybe it won't.  But, I'll never know if I don't take that step...


Away from Ennui