Visit a monkey in the tree of his life
He doesn't eat the fruit before it is ripe
When the sugar turns to alcohol
He shares his crop with one and all

The alcoholic tangerines are free
The alcoholic tangerines for you
The alcoholic tangerines for me

Friday, May 27, 2011

About Manure and What Great Stuff It Is

Beagles running in tall grass resemble geese in flight. Their ears must be strong to keep their heads aloft in the sunshine above the tops of the blades. The white tips of their tales are a kind of rudder heading them in their direction. I noticed this as I watched my two puppies run at the county fairgrounds, where we often go, in hopes that the puppies will teach me to hunt rabbits. Unfortunately, they don’t seem to know any more about hunting rabbits than I do.

Even after we learn to hunt rabbits I will still need to learn to shoot. Ironically, I already have a very small shotgun perfect for rabbit hunting. I imagine myself handling my weapon—cocked and ready—with perfect patience waiting for my chance to shoot it off. And then blam! The peppery pellets ejaculate from the end of my gun. How gratifying it must be to see the rabbit flop dead on the ground. In this way hunting becomes a kind of sexual replacement therapy. Like war itself, where thousands of frustrated males gather to spurt their guns off at each other in homo-erotic rage. The battle of the bulge a gigantic and deadly circle jerk, covering the face of Europe in the gysm of war.

On this particular day at the fair grounds my puppies discovered a large pile of what appeared to be dried brown grass. As they dug under the surface of the pile, it became apparent that the stuff was not grass but horse manure. The moist manure was exposed to the air, and the ripe odor of the stuff penetrated my nasal passages. It stank louder than the high notes of the electric violin, but my puppies loved it. They rolled in it until it clung wetly to their coats. They even ate it, choking it down before I could take it out of their mouths. “Ginger,” I yelled at the smallest beagle, “Don’t you have any sense?” Just then someone answered me, “They love manure! It’s like catnip is to cats.” I turned around to see a red haired and freckled man and his little girl approaching from the nearby country road. “Did you know on the African tundra that dingos and hyenas must eat the dung of the wilderbeast because of the digestive enzymes without which they cannot digest their meat?”

“I certainly did not,” I said.

“Yes sir,” he slurred, “I can tell you all about manure and what great stuff it is.” As he spoke, he knelt down beside the pile. He stuck his hands and arms into the manure up to his elbows. Then he pulled handfuls of the stuff from deep within the pile and sifted them between his fingers. “Did you know that the reservoir is stocked with yellow perch this big? Its plentiful with fish, but you have to know when and how to get them. Right now they hit only red worms. All the bait shops in the county are out of red worms, but I know where they are,” he whispered, “they’re in the shit.” And he was right. In his hands there remained ten or so wriggling red worms. “I’ll get a fat perch for every one of these red worms I guarantee,” he said.

Just then the little girl trailed up to the manure pile. “Doggies!” she exclaimed. As if on cue my pair of yelping puppies rushed her and pushed her down on her bottom. Ginger attacked the little girl’s face with her tongue and Missy began tugging on her black curls as she squealed. “She loves animals,” the man remarked as Missy led the girl on her hands and knees by the hair. “In fact I promised her that there would be doggies here, it’s the only way I could get her away from the Dora the Explorer.” I was somewhat alarmed at the apparent violence of the scene but the barefoot child seemed incapable of feeling pain or sensing fear. “She’s a rough little girl,” the man said.

“How could you guess there would be doggies here?” I asked.

“The other day she saw your doggies out the car window. I didn’t actually think there would be doggies here.” Just then the child got her little arms around Ginger’s middle and hoisted the squirming puppy above her head. A perfect clean and jerk. The puppy gave a bewildered look as the beautiful monster child spun around holding the dog’s belly on her face, then tumbled backward in the grass. That’s when I noticed the girl’s blue eyes and shiny black curls, her dark skin.

“Those are the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen on a child,” I remarked. The girl’s smoky blue eyes reminded me of a newborn kitten’s. “Yep, she’s got her mothers eyes,” the man replied.