Morning Rain

It's early and I smell rain. It's darker this morning, as if the drops scrub away the suns rays when they land upon our window glass.
No one notices how this morning struggles.

Inigo sleeps soundly on a collection of chewed items that don't belong to him. He's like a dragon asleep on his hoarded treasures. Mom is involved in her morning procrastinations; sure to be unamused when the numbers finally pry open her eyes to Beetle and her treasure. The fluff of something stuck to his muzzle, stirring as he breathes.

I look out the window, the sky weeps this morning. Maybe it cries for all the troubles of the world. Maybe it cries for the joy of another day.
No one notices how this morning struggles.
No one notices how this morning cries.

From the Belly of the Beast

We had baths last night. I like to think of myself as clean; my hair has the nuances of green grass, clean sand and fresh herbs, so I've been told. People finger my hair and burrow their noses into my curls with no worry of offending their senses. Inigo is another story, I wonder if he was at the root of last nights bathing. Dung Bug's hygiene is always suspect; his tongue has shared space with dead animals and he sometimes poops wrappers. Mom claims to recall my own green glitter poop and some long ago incident with Easter chocolates and their foils, I doubt her potentially flawed memories as I don't share the same.

Beetle's smell is neutral most days but he does have a radar for refuse by which I mean; anything the universe is trying to throw away by means of noisome, noxious, decaying stink. Where I roll in sun glistened sands he rolls in the nearest stray crab leg. Where I taste the dew moistened grasses plucked from the rich earth, Inigo puts his polluted maw around sun baked shellfish and sucks out their rot. When Inigo Rolls in a meadow's grasses or feels the Beach's baked sands run through his hair it's because something foul lurks below his feet and he has urge to be part of it's foulness. I, on the other hand, smell of all that's carried on the air so when I race, my feet flying a little black blur of me, past those standing still, they wonder, is it Ricky or is it the wind.

Inigo's first bath was hilarious. I watched it all unfold from behind the bathroom door with both unabated glee of his situation and fear of my own possibilities. Make no mistake I was ready to run if Mom decided I needed washing too.

Mom plopped Beetle in the bath tub which is a big, old, chipped monster with a silver draining mouth that consumes all the water that flows inside. It's four dismembered clawed feet must have been gripping tight to iron balls when they were separated from their real legs and reattached Frankenstein style to the belly of the tub. While watching as Mom scrubbed Inigo soundly with peppermint soap I wondered what ever became of the rest of the animal that is now our bath tub. Did they use other parts of him like the teeth and stomach or just it's feet?

Each time Mom released one scrubbing hand from Inigo, he shot over the white curled lip of the bath, Mom with sure reflexes, would catch him midair and stuff him back into the baths chipped white belly. Desperate with wide eyed pent up energy he waited each moment to deploy those little springs and propel himself to freedom. I enjoyed the spectacle and snickered under my breath at his circumstances. However my attentions towards Beetle were my own misfortune; no sooner had Mom finished him when she plucked me off the floor with that same quickness of reflex she'd recently displayed and stuffed me into the tub. Consumed, I waited to be slathered with the soap. The hollow beast with it's gripping claws held fast to the linoleum as it sucked down the water it was being fed. I dared not move for fear of swirling into it's gaping mouth along with the peppermint soap and Inigo's dirt and fleas. I tried to adopt an expression of detached boredom as Dung Bug looked on; wet, smelling of bath, eyes wide like saucers unable to look away. No sooner had my bath begun when I was regurgitated from the belly of the beast, dried with a big fluffy towel and released to sweet freedom.

I shook the remaining water from my coat starting from my head and ending with my tail. Inigo grabbed my bare leg in his mouth like he was the tub beast. He may have spooked me a little, I turned quick and gave chase through all the rooms of the flat, barking to him that I was the great, white, chipped creature from the bathroom, ripped from the floor I was coming to get him with my great clawed feet, stuff him between my silver lips, chomp and swallow him in my belly and then burp up his peppermint bones. Inigo ran fast across the wood floors his feet a flurry of clicking nails and turned up paper and toys, to my delight.

Score

Inigo and I are trying to score little 'nilla cookies from Mom. This is usually an occasion to have Inigo in good standing. He works the cute angle better than even I; it's the angle where Mom shows her greatest weakness and it's worthy of full exploitation. Inigo has a dopey, cute, unkempt appearance and generally wears whatever he's been into on the scruff of his face.

I have adapted with the addition of Inigo. He's cute but easily distracted so I field the drop zone more efficiently. I send him in with orders for cute; head tilted, tongue bitten between his teeth, toy fluff stuck to his face.

I work the perimeters of the zone; sitting I curl my shoulders, suck in my belly and look at the floor. I think of the saddest most heart wrenching thought of starving homeless puppies and kittens that I can and then look up with just my eyes when I feel Mom looking down at me. "Oh the humanity, think of the puppies and kittens."

Score! Out comes her hand half a cookie for each. Cute and pathetic appearances are dropped for the moment. I need all my faculties about me, if I loose focus I loose the cookie. Mom's fair and will give bite for bite but how the bites are to be distributed is important.

It's the catch, I'm not fond of the catch and I stand to loose out because of my clumsiness. Inigo is ready but he can't catch either... It's bounced off his face. Score! You snooze you loose Dung Bug. She's tossed one to me. What a crummy throw, ready to grab from the floor if need be. Score! Caught it. Inigo looks at me like it was a lucky catch,I give him the stink eye. The next cookie is in the air we booth leap for it, the cookie spins out of control, falls, and dances along the floor between our feet. I can't find the cookie for our eight paws sliding around the linoleum. I see the cookie at the same time as Inigo just as it's sliding under the table, we both scramble under. I give a growl to remind Inigo that I am older and the cookie rightfully belongs to me. He's responds back with a more desperate growl that reminds me that he's generally unhinged and is in a state of advanced unhingedness. We both plunge under the table further. Inigo unleashes his secret weapon; his tongue reaches out beyond my nose wraps itself around the little "nilla treat and retracts it into his mouth.

Back in the zone Mom sits in her chair, Inigo looks on with cute abandon and I count dirt specs on the floor. "Puppies and kittens, puppies and kittens, puppies and kittens."

Spring Morning

As I walk with Mom and Inigo I notice how spring is releasing the frosty remains of winter along the path to the beach. The mornings rays reach through the long shadow of the trees, finger the frosty grass, leaving a gistening jewel of dew on each blade with its touch.
The beach is nice this morning. The sun is warm, the murmur of a family on the beach, birds in the water and insects buzzing the air seem to join together singing a quiet song of solitude. Even Inigo is quiet only his light foot pads rustling the glassy pebbles beneath his feet add melody to music that plays only for this beach.
The soft edge of the sea rolls in harder for a moment in response to an unseen boat. The rails behind me rumble as a train filled with travelers passes over head.
...And then it's quiet again. The birds, the insects, me all rolling on the soft edge of the sea. The winter frost thaws a little in my bones. I squeeze my eyes to the sunshine and the salty stillness that can't quiet muster a breeze. Life is good.
It's as if the whole of the universe has conspired to create this moment just for me.

The Morning Constitutional

Everyday is the same we go for our little morning walk. Mom get Buddy, he's the service dog that we fostered about 18 months ago, while we wait in the car. Buddy lives with his mom full time now but we all go walk first thing in the morning. Three dogs walking should be an easy feat to achieve, Mom holds leashes we walk and take care of our business as we move along the path.

Inigo is the fly within our ointment nothing goes as it should with Beetle. I try to tell him to walk a straight line leaving the path on the event of a smell that may need some exploring, maybe add to it or possibly refresh yesterdays postings. Inigo runs left to right so often that our leashes become braided. Buddy and I have a leash each, Inigo has a chain. I'm not making this up, he ate though at least three leashes so he now has a chain, it's heavier than he is. He now chews on my leash and as we've already established my left leg.

When I find an explorable scent it's often hard to get to it as I'm often braided to Buddy by Inigo. Once I get to the spot it's necessary to separate the nuances of what was laid down before me. I know the size and breed of the dog before me and get a sense of his general well being. Protocol states that you do not pee on the dog marking a scent-Buddy! It is also good form to keep your head out of an other's stream-Inigo! And don't pee on my poop while I'm pooping it-both of you!

I'm always surprised and I shouldn't be by now, at how well Buddy and Inigo's noses function. I smell the same smells but am left with no compulsion to place the offending source into my mouth. Inigo can do a left weave, scoop up what can only be described as foul and then turn performing a right pass back to Buddy(also known as braiding). Buddy smells his breath his heart sinking with the realization of his own lost score. They actually have come to blows over an old grease saturated napkin. What could it possibly contain that's worth fisticuffs or worse.
And there is always potential for worse. Inigo poops wrappers. I've seen it. Mom and I are lucky if he only poops wrappers. Sometimes he nestles his teeth and tongue around some bacteria infested morsel and poops loose and stinky for days.

Old,discarded,refuse consumption is not something I personally get into. I've never so much as torn open a bag of old garbage let alone snarfed up an old hot dog reanimated by germs. I've come to a place of understanding... that I don't understand. I suppose that's the best I can do, recognize that I don't get it. And you know what? Not having a stink about my ends helps me sleep better.

Morning Sunshine

It's time to get up. I can tell as Mom goes through the same series of procrastinations every morning. She hides her head underneath the covers as if it will somehow slow the sun from cresting the hillside, wrapping around the buildings, glistening down the windowed streets and flowing through our glass, bringing in the new day on it's warm rays.
Mom covers her head and waits for the last possible moment to get up. I suspect the numbers on the clock will finally pry her eyes open with the promises of lateness and troubles for her.
Inigo is passed out-fast asleep, oblivious to the world around him. He's nested himself and mom pulls the covers, adjusting them around us as if she has more time. She doesn't.
I know she's awake behind her closed eyelids. I know they blanket her sight from the snoozed numbers on the clock. She seeks more time that has finally run out.
Mom sighs...and it's morning.

I Don't Know...Maybe It's Midnight

Good grief! I hope that was a stinker and not the whole turd. Would you learn already. He ranks poorly(no pun intended) on this particular skill. I will concede the floor is not a veritable mine field, ready to take of a foot, but he certainly can not be trusted.
I'll take my leave now. The foot of the bed glows green from the cloud of nuclear waste that just released from under that nub of a tail. he gets attention for being cute but all would be surprised by the toxic nature of his poots.
I find comfort under the covers with mom. I don't think she woke but I curled close to her. She smells like sleep and linen.

It's Good to Be...

Mom broke out some peanut butter treats by way of left hand, I like to guess. I put on a little act for her, tilting, sitting; she gave me five which was three more than I was expecting. I think she may be wising up to Dung Bug, she's trying to stop him from lunging at my food. how about my butt can you stop him from pulling the hairs from my butt.
mom didn't go to the art studio tonight, I've got my self all tucked into a little ball of mostly furry Richardo love at her feet. I watch her and hope she'll reach down and scratch my ears maybe say some of those gooey words.
Inigo has busied himself with rooting around looking for trouble. I hope he postpones finding some so it can be Mom and me a little more.
My bare ankle is chilled as if I wear one fallen sock.

What's In a Name

His name is, get this; "My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die." Who names their dog something that long. It has punctuation and can be diagrammed. Honestly I find it absurd to say the least, but he's an absurd creature of which I've found myself in close company for quite some time. I am glad Mom only calls him Inigo rather than prattle on so with a long list of useless words. It's all rather boring.
"Prepare To Die" my butt. If Beetle continues to pull the hair from my hindquarters he should spend time preparing to meet his maker by way of Jordan's runt cat Bug. Be warned Inigo, I'd have no problem luring you into the bathroom with some promised treat only to shut you in with her. If you wore pants you'd pee them and I would laugh at your suffering. What she lacks in brains she makes up for in gratuitous violence and I know you fear her. You fear the house she lives in, the floor she walks on as well as the chair from which she watches you. Even when she's not there. The very promise of Bug is enough to frighten you. And Inigo- I promise Bug!
Oh bother, I've digressed into a fantasy driven diatribe of which has sullied my good nature. I must make a note to forgive myself for my digressions. It's just that I don't suffer fools gladly and Inigo is most assuredly a fool. Speaking of which, here comes Mom. She may have food judging by the desperate and frothy nature of Dung Bug. i should follow. I may just receive a little something. I wonder from which hand she'll feed me. It smells like cheese. I like cheese.

A Beginning as Such

I lick the skin of my left ankle, it's grayer whiter flesh than i expected. It's wrong that I should see it at all as I usually have fur there. Mom has seen it too now and has suggested fleas. She said that I should not worry my leg but it's a chilly spot in the winter air where once I had fur.
It's not fleas, i try to convey with a twist of my head. She examines the spot. Carefully she touches me with her fingertips my gray can feel her warmth. Self Consciously I hide my leg, folding it among the others. She too noticed my skin was pale and grey. Was she expecting pink with freckles like fluffy? She once said I was a lot like him except he had white fur and apparently pink and freckled skin; where mine grows gray. I hope she's not disappointed.
I do have a black coat that has started to turn a distinguishing gray rather prematurely and I have curls of which make me appear overly cute and more approachable than I really am. Pairing my curls with the fact I am of mixed breed known as Schnoodle does little for my self esteem and garners me no extra respect. Really, Schnoodle does have the ring of snack food to it; Fruit Loops, Ring-A-Dings, Schnoodles.
Mom and everyone I know call me Ricky. It's a cute name and fits my curly exterior, however I secret the thought that Richardo lies below the surface like the gray skin that has been most recently revealed to me.
This is neither here nor there, the issue at hand is the unfortunate exposure of my ankle skin. I will continue to break through moms thickness, she need only to open her eyes and notice the ten pound mongrel that bites at my ankles by form of Inigo.
Last year I had fur on my skin where I expected it should be. Mom brings home Dung Bug and now I have a receding hairline below the caps of my knees. I've been waiting for mom to catch on, I love her but honestly, she's not the crunchiest kibble in the bowl. So here I sit and journal my troubles, hoping for release so as to spare the life of dear little Inigo.