Genevieve; The Ninth Compound Dissonance by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview

A Reflective Pause

The present situation cannot be understood by only viewing what is allowed to be on mainstream media, “social” and otherwise.

The West has never seen the results of extremism on the left, though the US toyed with criminal tolerance for a failed decade a half century ago. That might explain the de facto accepting apathy on this matter. While the libbies still buried in 1969

worry about the main stream media’s overly advertised, annoying personality of a center-right politician new to the game, instead of paying any notice at all to the flaming destructive rhetoric and actions of extremists on the left, the wizened criminal element breaks loose at the seams in un-controlled joyous anticipatory celebration of the coming day when the villains make all the rules.

Descendants of those who died or suffered under Mao, Stalin, Castro, Pol Pot and other left wing radicals, would spot the dangers in what the US “Democrats” have supported or were remiss in criticizing in 2020. Whether it's encouraging or simply allowing anarchy in many US cities, defunding the police, not prosecuting rioters, arsonists, and looters, etc. the horrendous apocalyptic goals of the beasts which have been allowed to

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slouch into Bethlehem, ready to multiply, would be obvious to those in most places outside the west.

The Black Lives Matter Agenda: In Their Own Words The mainstream libbie media doesn't seem particularly interested into diving into what the BLMers actually believe, but if one becomes familiar with the actual philosophy and policy positions stated, it is clear that they and the organizations behind them are dangerous fringe groups.

A black career criminal’s demise at the hands of four arresting cops; two white, one black, and one Asian, sparked the nation's conscience and provoked destructive street theatre, especially popular and long running in Seattle, Portland, and New York.

But what about "Black Lives Matter, Inc.?" It seems all too revealing how little interest the monopolistic mainstream media moguls have in delineating the goals of the allegedly grass rooted movement, nor make mention of the organizations which fund and support BLM. As a result, the organizations are receiving tremendous support from corporate America and many white Millennials.

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It is well past time for a serious dissemination of information readily available, but conveniently ignored by the cowardly tight rope walkers afraid of a fall.

There are two more or less organized groups which claim to speak for the movement; The Black Lives Matter Global Network (BLM) and the Movement for Black Lives (M4BL).

While both of these groups would have you believe that they are civil rights organizations in the mold of the NAACP and the SCLC, they are each much more communist neo-revolutionaries in the mold of old, extremely radical notions which have been tried, only to find that they never work, in the sense of producing the decimation of their hated rich, while countering that “success” through establishing a lower standard of living for their “loved” populace. They despise western civilization, primarily because they are devoid of the discipline required to be “equal,” whatever that means, in it. They hate the diligent work done by the State of Israel, and want to see the world realigned away from the America in which most of them reside; in itself a laughable masochistic stance from those who are free to go wherever it is that meets their ideals. Their manifestos emphasize issues far from the goal of racial reconciliation. For example, M4BL declares on its website;

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1) We believe that prisons, police and all other institutions that inflict violence on black people must be abolished.

Writer’s note. They conveniently ignore the well-documented fact that the overwhelming majority of “institutions” which inflict violence on black people are other black people.

2) The current systems we live inside of need to be radically transformed, which includes a realignment of global power.

Writer’s note. That they are free to bring their enlightened perspective somewhere else they find better on the globr, which would “benefit” from their presence, is not discussed.

3) We are anti-capitalist. We believe and understand that black people will never achieve liberation under the current global racialized capitalist system. Writer’s note. Correctamundo, Abdul. Liberation starts in a turned on head.

It is striking how much of the agenda is devoted to attacking the nuclear family, the breakdown of which has most disenfranchised black people, if you put any credence in the words of Tupac Shakur. The bedrock of the civil society which prospered, long before any weirdo detractors had the audacity to

“require” the tolerant majority to adopt their intolerant minority display of inconsequential oddity.

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Here are some other statements taken from the alternative BLM

site;

1) We are self-reflexive and do the work required to dismantle cisgender (heterosexual) privilege and uplift black trans folk.

Writer’s note. Extended periods in jail understood and aside; we’re all sure that Magic Johnson and his sissy kid are most appreciative.

2) We disrupt the western-prescribed nuclear family structure requirement. Writer’s note. This grandiose claim is more accurately served through the insertion of “attempt to disrupt.”

3) We foster a queer affirming network. When we gather, we do so with the intention of freeing ourselves from the tight grip of heteronormative thinking. Writer’s note. Free away weirdos. Why am I starting to think that this diatribe is aimed at garnering appeal and support in the lucrative, cross-over, white, gender confused market? I apologize for my having one of those cynical days.

I doubt this is popular in the bulk of the black community which only dares posting regurgitative, trite web crap where the monopolies “concerned” with “truth,” do whatever they are able to New World Order correctly avoid it. The failed nonsense resurrected by a group purporting to care about black America

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having the goal of "disrupting the nuclear family," meaning children having mothers and fathers, should be easily seen as false flag operation. The absence of the nuclear black family is perhaps the biggest impediment to black social progress. Low-income, single parent families are more difficult to lift out of the poverties of every sort of deprivation for two very obvious reasons; there is one less potential breadwinner and one less teacher.

Every study shows that children raised without fathers have higher rates of delinquency, drug use, educational failure, and other social ills.

While black lives absolutely matter, the BLM institutional movement is a fringe group, most dangerous to those they purport to uplift. You don't have to take my word for it. Get your lazy ass off the main stream misinformation, misinterpretation, partial stories, and much too obviously conveniently worded statements fabricated in support of their cause. Decide for yourself if you dare.

What about reparations?

Well, here we get to the most bottom of lines; money. Of course, both the BLM and M4BL groups support reparations. And the issue has made news again. As might be expected, the majority of

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Americans are overwhelmingly opposed to reparations; the idea having only 29% support; blacks, Antifa, and those brain challenged. You guessed it. Joe Biden seems open to reparations, as long as it includes Native Americans.

Bullet Comments

Francine Blumberg - We knew this would happen... it comes through the ignorance of people who have a low IQ. Burning the Bible was mild compared to them setting fires to buildings with people still inside .. even with children still inside .. a Bible can be replaced but not a human being's life ...

Sam Adams - VIOLENT ANARCHISTS ON AMERICA'S STREETS MIGHT NEED

TO SMELL A 'WHIFF OF GRAPESHOT' ...

Buster - Time to put the big hurt on these punks. Take them out for good.

Mabel Dodge - THEN THEY BURNED THE BIBLES: THE ANTI-GOD SPIRIT

BEHIND TODAY'S RADICAL RIOTS

Bob Marley - Just remember. Jah gets the last word. Be careful what you sow. It won't be funny when you reap.

Lackluster - PROTESTS VS. RIOTS. LEADING DEMS MAKE IT CLEAR THEY

WON’T RECOGNIZE THE DIFFERENCE.

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Braithwaite in Limbo - Rejecting the truth is a sign of moral and civil decline. Dems, how low can you go? We are close to the bottom.

Rochester - AMERICA'S PROBLEMS WON”T GO AWAY, NO MATTER THE

RESULTS OF NOVEMBER’S ELECTION. TONS OF BULLSHIT HAVE BEEN

THROWN INTO THE FLAMES, AND IT MIGHT TAKE SOME WHILE TO

EXTINGUISH THE CRAP.

Civil Majority - If President Trump is not elected again our republic will be lost forever. If he is re-elected we will have a civil war between the civil and the uncivil. The latter bad choice seems preferable.

Daly Dread - YA DON'T SAY? MUSLIM REP OMAR WANTS TO 'DISMANTLE

AMERICA' DURING THIS REVOLUTION WITH THE FULL SUPPORT OF HER AOC

CREW AND THE POWER HUNGRY DEMS, WHO USE THE MENTAL MIDGETS LIKE

PUPPETS.

Bobup - She needs to go back to the slums of Mogadishu whet she belongs in Muslim ordained female silence. Ingrate wench.

Pinheadio – I’m a real boy. I’m a real boy. That is, if I’m not a fake girl.

Artful Dodger - POLICE VIOLENCE? RIOTS? BLM? THE DEADLY ART OF

LYING BY OMISSION. OH WELL.

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Morticia Spectator - I have written elsewhere about how BLM and its cohorts are not about equality in any shape or form. They are only about domination and suppressing any who oppose them.

The gay rights movement has shown this for years, as science lovers have given us the notion that somehow gender is a matter of personal choice or current whim, and woe betide anyone who says otherwise. Admittedly, in this relatively innocuous vein, few care about the subject matter. But, now we get the distortions and outright lies of BLM and its followers. Their stats are misleading at their best, and totally wrong when applying a standard of reasonable accuracy. A modicum of simple research reveals that proportionately more whites than blacks die while in police custody or while being arrested. Further, it would take a half century for the alleged number of black deaths while in police custody to approximate the number of black deaths caused by other blacks on one Chicago summer weekend.

Despite being 13% of the population, blacks commit 65% of the crime necessitating their being arrested five times more than whites is never mentioned in the libby main stream media. That there are ten million arrests every year in the US as well as an uncounted number of police interventions which do not culminate in an arrest, and that BLM and their supporters can only come up with a handful of alleged police “violations,” and all of those involving a felonius career criminal, is testimony not to the

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abusive nature of the system already in place, but rather a commendation to the system operating at an A+ level; absolute 100% perfection the domain of utopian hermit monks and those seeking to use incorrect, deficient, and manipulated misinformation in an attempt to benefit their power-hungry, depraved, and crooked agendas. This is getting extremely boring.

I’m sorry I mentioned it, though I was not the one who brought up the issue. F*** it.

Nerve Enda – Load up on guns. Bring your friends. It’s fun to lose. Same old grasps. I’m self-assured. I know I know. Until the end. Hello. Goodbye.

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7 – Silent Partner

Genevieve said; “Is this over?”

Dillon replied; “For us, yes. But, not a chance for the hominids. Then there are the commercial cash-in repeats.”

“The ‘revolution’ will be televised.”

“Looks like the hominids are ready for another Civil War.”

“There won’t be anything civil about it.”

“Good ratings are expected through another cheap ‘reality’

show. Action packed; like a Popeye cartoon sponsored by a chicken killer.”

“I yam what I yam.”

“And that’s all that I yam.”

“I’m Popeye the sailor man.”

“Toot toot.”

“Is viewing mandatory?”

“Only if you want to speak with a hominid flunky and seem to be ‘informed’ and concerned.”

“Speaking of hominid flunkies, look at this.”

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“After all this time you still think I have a clue? WHO’s the idiot?”; property of the author.

Dillon said; “WHO.”

Genevieve said; “Try not to get carried away with yourself.

The ninny was just trying to sound semi-smart. Please pardon me.

I’m choking from laughter.”

“Head shots work better.”

“Eeeeeew.”

“Double eeeeeeeeeeeew.”

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Dillon said; “I think it’s unfair to blame him. His family got him the job. If it was up to him, he’d of just spent the time with his lips attached to a Heineken.”

“Biden was always known for plagiarism.”

“You would think that one could easily recognize the good protestor – bad looting protestor game as a re-do of the ancient good cop – bad cop routine.”

“You would think.”

“I’d rather not.”

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Br’er Wolf, Br’er Rabbit and “Uncle Remus” by Frank Zappa; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.

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Howl; property of the author.

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8 - E-mail

Genevieve said; “Whoosh. It’s really so disappointing.

.....”

Dillon cut her off to interject; “It’s best to look at the bright side. If the hominids again get obsessed with killing each other, they’ll be much less likely to find their way to our Poochville.”

“And mess it up.”

“Precisely.”

“It’s our fault that we get compelled to look at their nonsense, as the vastness of the internet has so much potential to provide interesting things. Yet, it doesn’t.”

Dillon said; “That it doesn’t makes sense in a way. Just imagine if TV provided eight billion channels. The producers would have to fill up the air space with junk that wouldn’t have been a decent grammar school play in Oshkosh. You have to find your spots and just ignore the rest.”

“I guess. Those self-published and small press free books are abominations.”

“Did you say Obama nations?”

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“Not exactly, but more or less.”

“I think that the books are a slight improvement over the short PhaseBook type of edited drivel, as the writers at least have to know enough to format the thing correctly.”

“Not on AmawayOnSteroids.com, the surreptitiously largest source.”

“Well, you can’t get away with any incompetent formatting nonsense on Smashwords. Again, it’s a matter of picking your spots. But why focus on books? Two-thirds of the hominid population never read any anyway. To little avail, the libraries have always provided tons of free books well before that demented Democrat demagogue, Joe Biden claimed to have invented the net while sharing Nelson Mandela’s jail cell in Johannesburg.”

“Was he sniffing Nelson?”

“Fill in the blanks before and in the middle of bear and woods.”

“Shit! That’s tricky. I need a hint. Might it have something to do with the art of assholery?”

“Your intuitive innuendo is instantaneously inverted impeccable.”

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“Inside?”

“Invariably.”

“Oh! Don’t tell me.! I know! ....... “

“Well, pray tell. What is it?”

“I forgot. I’m on to other stuff. I hope I’m not going too fast for you. It’s unintentional. ..... Truly.”

Dillon sighed before saying; “Super cool. I started to reverb anyway. You know what I most hate about the net?”

“That it comes up empty of fish?”

“Sort of. The shows which call themselves news programs, are merely discussions of news from like 1965; don’t ask if AD

or BC.”

“That MSNBC-CNN ’Reverend’ Alphonse Dullton regular looks old enough to have covered both eras.”

“Let’s try not to dwell on the inadequacies of hominid libtard presentations. It’s too easy and it could go on forever.

And it does have some positive aspects. Look! We have been e-informed that we are the recipients of mail! Egads!”

To: Genevieve and Dillon

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From: Willy

Subject: My Dove Lane Relocation

How are you two? I’m fine and more importantly, so is Abigail.

That tick nonsense heads for the hills when confronted with some old fashioned tenderness. Look at our picture. I hope the attachment button works.

We’re staying at her house on Dove Lane, and it looks like I’ll be here a while. I miss you as well as all my other friends on Pacific Lane. I often dream that I’m back there.

But, hey; it’s not as if I went to China; perish the perilous thought. We’re still well within walking distance of each other.

Willy and Abigail, both now of Dove Lane; property of the author.

Isn’t she the cutest thing you ever saw?

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Make sure you find a decent handyman for my old house. Every once in a while you need one.

Genevieve said; “Pacific Lane’s loss is Dove Lane’s gain.”

Her smiling face effectively hid an insistent tear.

Genevieve; property of the author.

Dillon said; “We’ve been cooped up too long. Let’s take a trip.”

“Oh, no. It’s much too soon. Newlyweds just hate it when company comes crashing in on them when they have better things to do, and the plethora of party poopers always go out of their way to be ‘friendly’ hindrances.”

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“Well, I didn’t necessarily mean to go to Willy’s. I just meant break out. Wherever. Your choice. “

“Okay. Let me think about it. Tomorrow. Right now, I’m exhausted and just want to put my snout in a book.”

“The Razor’s Edge”; property of the author.

When he saw her chosen book, Dillon said; “The path is difficult to cross.”

“We’ll see.”

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9 - Trip

It might have been memorable, if not for the lack of attention paid; depends on one’s point of view, if any.

As they walked in tandem, the Pacific Lane duo watched the rumbling and threatening sky, prepared to turn back if the dark clouds decided to rupture with soaking rain. The journey was well worth the small risk, as like is purported to be the case in hominid New Mexico, the more or less late summer Poochville blue/gray was notorious for making a lot of noise and doing nothing. Unprotected, Genevieve and Dillon crossed through a few yards, before utilizing the easier access behind Willy’s unoccupied former place to get to the land behind Pacific Lane.

This was a narrow, but wild area which separated the tended yards from the Boggy Cleave River.

This gently sloping, overgrown land was periodically immersed and nurtured by the raging, running water of the river overflowing its banks in a storm. Not wanting to be carried away in a flash flood, no Poochville pooches lived there. There had been occasional rumors of errant constables, homeless, derelict, or dangerous dogs taking up stakes on the site. But, no one had ever found the source of such rumors, nor had anyone seen anything of the sort. For most it was just kind of a place to go

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when one needed to feel natural, rebellious, and solitary in highly probable safety; the joke falling flat, perhaps a function of being much too level-one-duplicity-obvious.

Each making their “informed” decision, that still a convenient requirement in uninformed circles when the voting goes the other way; on their own, Genevieve and Dillon decided to explore the area as each saw fit. As a result of that, when headed for the same spot, they rounded a blind bend created by an irregular cluster of five foot tall and blooming Apache Plume bushes from opposite directions. Genevieve and Dillon plowed into and scared the hell out of each other; a similar sort of

“accident” to that regularly engaged in by learned and cantankerous devotees of “art.”

Upon seeing that her snout had gotten butted by Dillon’s, Genevieve put a paw to her chest, exhaled deeply, and jokingly said; “There must be another way.”

Upon seeing that it was Genevieve, Dillon’s incisors and claws retracted. He put a paw to his chest, exhaled deeply, and said; “Go ahead. Make my day. ................ That’s a battlefield joke! Why don’t you watch where you’re going anyway?”

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Genevieve said; “That’s not conducive to finding any of Hillary’s deplorables. Let’s stick together in case we run into any others.”

They continued their jaunt, reverting to being in a more or less tandem alignment.

The dirt trail gradually trailed off, as trails are known to do. The little feet which created it must have decided; “Far enough for now.” At the same time it must have been a high wind, not particularly considerate of the lower elevations or sinkholes, which had cleared out the gang of boisterous, booming dark clouds above, leaving a bright sun and a warming temperature.

Much of the lush growth was above their heads, providing a respite from the blare as much as a latticed patio covering.

With each paw movement they temporarily flattened what had been right ahead of them, chancing an alarming face-off with something unknown. Despite that, they were totally tranquil and comfortably languid, as they knew that somebody close had their back.

Their tuned ears heard the sound of the flora and fauna grudgingly giving way under each paw-step, only to bounce immediately back with a reflexive murmur. Ambient music was

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provided by the whooshing rush of the river over the rocks and the occasional somber call of one of the solitary birds perched on a tree top.

The calls segued into screeches, here and there, but mostly there, which soon became commonplace and reminiscent of the contiguous flush, like an intrusive IT monopoly again adding unrequested, lesser mid-tree points of howl to their lucrative surveillance of Genevieve and Dillon’s prior catalogue. What can one expect from loud, nosy bird brains? Melodious songs?

Other than walking together, they had no particular plan in mind, other than a seemingly reasonable wish to be alone together in the “wild” outdoors. But, Genevieve and Dillon’s un-compassed and un-measured, natural meandering took them to the clearings with the hints of more established paths which bordered on the Boggy Cleave. The record of the many footsteps taken by the now unseen furry creatures on their many ways to and around their water source had more or less accidentally produced a series of tiny, river bordering trails now most apt for the progression of the resilient and uncultivated, southwestern staple called Indian rice grass. Currently, the Native American staple was virtually all tan, sparse, broken, and trampled upon through the completely passionate disregard of those seeking nearness to the river, coupled with the discretion

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which dictated not leaving the safety provided through hugging the shore.

Genevieve immediately went to the edge. Dillon was either reluctant or as slow as a Democrat politician on the wrong side of normal retirement age. The water was swift, producing white caps at every rock; like an intermittent and consistently recurring display of grayish-white germanium shields. The surging abundance of short lived insolences was sufficient to look to Genevieve like a flash near a flash next to another flash; much like the display provided by colorless lights on a Christmas tree, or the flashing bulbs on an old camera being rapidly snapped. In the modified writing of a somewhat observant poet, it was a relentlessly marauding army of insignificant armors; swordless, yet trying to appear significant in their pebble induced fraction of a second lifespan.

Dillon said; “Wooo,” in complete disregard for the statement’s inevitably compounded interpretations, a casual, nasal, diacritical tilde on the interpretation’s “s.” More moment focussed he added the recognition; “I knew that you would. Just be careful.” He watched her.

Genevieve knew that the rushing river was also dangerously cold this early in the day, even in the summer, the result of dark overnight desert lows thirty to forty degrees below daytime

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desert highs; the water effectively a moderator of the air, rather than a participant.

Genevieve; property of the author.

In it, the slightest slip and too long a stay could result in death from hypothermia, if you didn’t first drown. Yet there were unexplored islands offshore. These were the little things of just a few acres created by the likes of a dead log which diverted the flow around it; and the subsequent accumulation of gritty dirt behind. Even littler things grew there; and twenty foot trees congregated together on the older keys. Those with tall, wild, and mature foliage cover were potentially places where a criminal might find undisturbed safety. Genevieve

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continued to stand at the edge thinking about the leap. Right in front of her was that one island which was host to deciduous evergreens which made it an excellent hiding spot. She decided to not swim to “Portland” when the water suddenly became turbulent.

Things can get a bit covered sometimes. Things can get a bit covered when in the woods. Things can get a bit covered when the lower growth is thick. Things can get a bit covered by water. Things can get a bit covered by repetitive selective reporting. Things can get a bit covered pretty often.

Genevieve stared at the water. Near shore it was jumping like a discontented and disregarded protestor, “heroically”

carrying a sign and chanting about yesterday’s more or less resolved issue. The relentless gurgle and episodic slosh increased in volume, ultimately approaching the level of the 1950’s classic, a strolling Chuck Willis 45. Genevieve toned down and relaxed into the droning sound of the uninterrupted flow. Her eyes closed and she stopped to lay on her side. The warmth of the sun was inviting and she may have drifted off somewhere beyond the sea. Having all day, Dillon joined her.

Rudely breaking the river’s mellow song, there was a shriek. Genevieve alertly stood up. A broad winged gull was making its presence known as it swooped down to the river’s

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surface. The gull got quiet when it returned to the sky with a fish half its size in its beak. The entire week’s food shopping operation lasted about two seconds; bettering the swift conveniences offered by the highest paid foreign consumer programming talent lured by Seattle’s AmawayOnSteroids.

Seeking protection from the air raid just in case it was not a solo operation, Genevieve went to the wood’s edge, pulling Dillon with her. Upon re-approaching the broad cottonwoods, she looked in all directions to see if any other loud dive bombers were anywhere near. Not seeing or hearing any, she took another step and her front leg stumbled over a slight rise in the ground.

“Hey! Off that!” bellowed the agitated voice from behind.

Genevieve and Dillon jumped further back from the river, and got behind a tree. They turned and saw the head of the dripping, angry little thing emerge from somewhere previously unseen. Upon her brief first glance Genevieve was not sure whether it belonged to a turtle, a snake, or a prattling, alien visitor by way of Portland.

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Emerging turtle property of the author.

She was right on counts one and three, though she would not know of three until later, in that the protuberance was indeed a turtle head. She breathed a huge sigh of relief as the turtle slowly pulled the rest of itself from its earthy confines.

Genevieve said; “Bad turtle. Very bad turtle. You shouldn’t sneak up on pooches like that.”

With one nod of his snout and a low “harrumph,” Dillon agreed.

“Bad turtle? Very bad turtle? How dare you? You have trampled upon my eggs. ....... Perhaps I should not have volunteered that to turtle egg tramplers.”

In unison, Genevieve and Dillon said; “What eggs?”

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“What eggs? The eggs I placed under that little rise that you were standing on, of course. Don’t you know a turtle egg when you see one?” said the turtle.

Genevieve looked at the mound, and eyeing it said; “I don’t see any eggs.”

“They’re buried!” said the turtle.

“Turtles may not be aware that pooches are not equipped with x-ray vision,” said Dillon with the slightest edge of defiance.

“Take my word, Ms. Turtle,” said Genevieve. “We have no intention of harming your eggs.”

“Sigh,” said Ms. Turtle. “Maybe we should get to know each other a bit. My name is Rosamaria, and I live out on the island of Portland.”

Genevieve said; “I’m Genevieve and this is Dillon. We live right next to here in Poochville.” They all shook flippers and paws, as much as one can. Realizing it to be belated, though as hind sightedly “relevant” as a typically timely on-line purported expert on both sociology and political “science,” she added; “Are you a snapping turtle?”

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Rosamaria said; “No. ...... Some who might look like me are; but the rest of us try to stay away from them. Those are the bad turtles. Tell me; where do you bury your eggs?”

Genevieve said; “Whooo. That’s a difficult one. We don’t have eggs. ....... Well, yes we do. But, we don’t bury them.

..... Yes we do. ........ “

Rosamaria said; “So you keep your eggs with you, in a hidden spot?”

Relieved, Genevieve said; “Precisely. Thank you.” In somewhat of an attempt to change the subject, she continued with; “Tell me. If you live in Portland, why do you bury your eggs here?”

Rosamaria said; “DACA.”

Dillon said; “Don’t ask. We’ll goggle it later.”

“Things are not so good out on the island now. The gulls are a plague on turtles, especially the soft-shelled youngsters,” said Rosamaria. “The little ones are better off here.”

Genevieve asked; “I guess that you’re not originally from around here. Are you?”

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Rosamaria said; “No. I have allowed the strong current to carry me far from my point of origin. A sea turtle has little choice in the matter, I’m most sure.”

Genevieve said; “I’ve never been much anywhere, I guess.

Poochville is nice, and it’s best to avoid the places hominids reside; and they keep moving further and further out, like an untreated disease. You’ve been all over. Right?”

Rosamaria said; “As far as the water has taken me. I’m pretty slow moving; especially on land; and some of those hominids get the thrill of their ersatz lives trying to run over turtles. I’m safer underwater. It’s just going with the flow, away from most of the hom-beasts. ...... Tell me. Why did you come out here?”

Dillon said; “Just for a walk; a change of scenery.”

Genevieve added; “Bad dreams. I just need to be reminded that everywhere is not loaded with gangs of aggressive, collared dogs. .......... You haven’t seen any of those around here! Have you?”

Rosamaria said; “No. Most of the time I only see birds, rabbits, and squirrels. They make me nervous when they start scratching around.”

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“Well, we’ll be sure not to disturb any turtle egg mounds,”

said Genevieve, “Isn’t that right Dillon?”

Dillon nodded emphatically.

“You’re really sweet, Genevieve,” said Rosamaria. “Both of you. You say you come from the mainland?”

Genevieve said; “You too, Rosamaria. Glad we recovered from that poor start. But yes, from the mainland; Poochville; it’s only a thousand feet from here. Please stop by sometime.”

“I’d like to. But I can’t get that far from the water,”

said Rosamaria.

“Well, Dillon and I will just have to come here more often.”

They said their goodbyes; Genevieve adding a “Watch out for those gulls” and receiving a “You too” in return. Rosamaria entered the Boggy Cleave River and started to float her way back to Portland.

“Let’s direct ourselves inland,” said Dillon.

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10 –Collars

Genevieve and Dillon were frightened by a horrendous screeching noise just ahead. A collared dog was thrashing about in the brush, as if he was having a vocal, grand mal seizure.

They began running in the direction of their home, when they heard; “Don’t be scared. This collar is frustrating me. It has nothing to do with you.”

Genevieve and Dillon slowed down to a comfortable amble.

They looked at each other with raised eyebrows as if for each to say; “I know this might be a scam.”

Fully versed in scams, the collared dog correctly guessed what they were thinking, and said; “I’m not looking for anything other than some help in getting this thing off. It’s choking me.”

Genevieve and Dillon stopped and shrugged as if to say;

“We’ll probably be sorry.” Genevieve said aloud; “In Poochville such cynical thoughts have no place. If they ever existed, the lack of censorship has eradicated any perceived need for subterfuge.”

Dillon was tempted to say that “We’re no longer in Poochville,” but held his tongue for a few reasons; one that he

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was not sure if this wild land bordering the Boggy Cleave River was part of Poochville proper or not. Instead he said; “This poor dog needs some help. It’s our way to try.”

The previously cantankerous and crazed appearing dog smiled as best he could, which wasn’t half bad and said; “Let’s start over again. Thanks for trusting. In your place, I probably wouldn’t. I’m Joseph, and I came here from Rapidtown. Pleased to meet you.”

Collared Joseph; property of the author.

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Genevieve and Dillon identified themselves, Dillon subsequently saying; “Rapidtown? That must have been some trip.”

Joseph answered; “Well, you know. But I picked this time because the snow on the Denial Mountains is only two to three feet deep near the peak in the summer. I just wish I could get this collar off now. They aren’t so bad when they go on. But as you grow they get tighter and tighter.”

Dillon said; “Who or what put it on you?”

Joseph said; “Some hominid. ...... Or maybe even some dog.

It was so long ago I really can’t remember.”

Genevieve said; “Maybe I can help. If you’ll trust me near your neck, I might be able to gnaw it off.”

Joseph said; “Sure,” and Genevieve used her teeth, careful not to bite his neck. She made some headway, but stopped in distaste. As she spat and spat, she said; “This thing is plastic! I’m afraid I’ll get poisoned or vomit all over you.”

Joseph said; “I think I understand. Thanks for trying to help. Maybe I now have enough space to slip a paw in and break it myself.” He tried and tried, but his paw was too big.

Dillon said; “Didn’t anyone in Rapidtown ever think of doing this?”

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Joseph answered; “You’re not supposed to say this back there, but I strongly suspect that no doubt a few have. But, the rest rather have an excuse to be walking around all mad and bad, while they choke. The dumb dogs even get into thinking that the color of their collar is a source of pride, like surviving long term caging and chaining, and attack those with the ‘wrong’

one.”

Genevieve wanted to say something, but found no frame of reference.

Dillon said; “On this side of the Denials those kinds of monkey wrenches are foreign. You mind if I take a gnaw at that?”

Joseph said; “Frankly, I was hoping you’d ask.”

Dillon bit in at the same spot Genevieve had put on track.

His larger teeth proved to be more of a useful tool than a placement difficulty, once he was situated. Still, that acrid, plastic taste and smell seemed to permeate his very being. He kept on, making some progress, until the increasing and creeping nausea was overwhelming. He let go, saying; “Got it some more.

When we recuperate from that toxic plastic, Genevieve and I can do more. Just hang on there, my man. This isn’t a one day job.”

Joseph effectively hid his disappointment, in recognition of the duo having made some headway into his collared dilemma,

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fully expectant of more tomorrow and perhaps more importantly, liking and trusting them. The rip-in-progress had made his breathing easier than any other time he could recently recall.

Joseph said; “Thanks. Maybe I can handle it from here.” He tried and tried to insert his left front paw into the space generated by the partial rip. It wasn’t easy and may have caused a paw-claw laceration in his neck. However, it didn’t hit a jugular, and seemed as if it required no Frankensteinian stitches. He got the left in there, tugged and tugged.

He started to hear a rip and then it snapped where it was bitten. He shook his head and felt around his neck. After all the collared years, it was too good to be true. Joseph could breathe easily and was not encumbered by anything physical. He saw the broken collar lying on the ground, but to be sure he asked; “Is it off?”

Genevieve said; “It’s off alright,” and Dillon nodded yes.

Exhilarated, Joseph picked the broken collar up with his right front paw, ran to the river’s edge, and threw it twenty feet in, a part he knew to be a deep channel.

Genevieve and Dillon made paw applause one can’t hear, but has to see.

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Collarless Joseph; property of the author.

Joseph simultaneously felt silly, accomplished, happy, and invigorated. He took a little bow, adding; “What next?”

Dillon said; “Savor it. This only comes once in a lifetime.”

Genevieve said; “We’d be honored if you’d walk with us. You never know what you’re going to run into here in the wild.”

Joseph said; “Three dogs free to go wherever they want.”

Genevieve said; “Yes! One small point. Over here we say

‘pooches,’ rather than ‘dogs.’ Some believe that it makes some sort of a difference.”

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Dillon shrugged and made a weird face, indicating something like; “Okay. Whatever.”

Joseph said; “What are we pooches waiting for? Let’s move it further into the ‘wild.’” Of necessity, he led Genevieve and Dillon down the narrow rabbit path which bordered the Boggy Cleave.

Since they knew he had never been there before, Genevieve and Dillon expected that Joseph couldn’t possibly know where he was going. Rather than raise any objection, they both thought that would make it more fun to follow him.

The Boggy Cleave was allowed to be running high that day.

Since the first recognized hominid depression it was one of the things the depressed hominids had begun to “manage” from somewhere upriver of Poochville. Though initially intended to provide make-work jobs, this expert water “management” had its side effects. It inadvertently ended hominids killing each other over water issues, necessitating the hominids find other reasons to continue blasting one another. “New” forms of blood lust creativity, like six inch boundary disputes and the illegal clipping of shared borderline bushes, expanded hominid

“inventiveness”. Like any governmental “management” effort, once created, it became immortal, infinitely passing its use-by date in spades, at the expense of the consistently diminishing Boggy

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Cleave River, which experienced a burgeoning accumulated deficit. At the same time, there were many undeniable pooch benefits. Their houses were no longer in any danger of flooding, and the trio would today be trying to swim in the deep, flowing water, rather than casually walk on the exposed river bed. As long as pooch wells did not run dry, the hominid river

“management” gave them no problems.

The hommies upriver must not have been doing much of their allotted diversions on this day; the old farm fields now having grown lucrative houses rather than marginally profitable corn.

This post-management-high, muddy flow clipped away at the shore edges and made a sound which may have meant something in hominid Mandarin or expert hominid scientific notation of emerging infectious diseases, the latter something of interest to only them. It sounded something like;

“Plooshmehtroppingplooshmehtroppinummagumma.“

The sunlight reflecting on the rippling water made the river appear to be crayola with streaking lines of light brown.

If there were any living fishes down there no one could have been able to see it, unless it leaped out of one of the shallows.

Besides the river, they only heard the birds flying from branch to branch, lizards running over the sand, or unseen

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rabbits and squirrels rustling in the brush. They made idle chit-chat about the weather and the state of the Boggy Cleave River. In a matter of minutes it seemed quite noisy, everyone speaking at once.

After a mile Genevieve breathlessly said; “I think we should start back. It’s getting hot and my achy back leg is starting to act up.”

Joseph said; “Sure. But, let’s go back more inland. We’ll have covered more territory that way.”

Despite the alternative route being meandering and longer, Genevieve forced a smile and nodded. With some difficulty the three diverted through the brush. After going more or less straight toward the back they found the faint remnants of a driftway; a foot wide, indented strip where the water ran off during heavy rains. It made traveling a bit easier as the driftway’s vegetation growth was rigorously hampered by what the accidental and natural path must have seen as a recurring flood which washed away any seeds sufficiently silly to have landed and planted themselves on it.

At some point the driftway stated showing signs of some growth underpaw. A water lover, the Arundo, giant reedy plants took the place of the oleander and mariola on both sides of

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them. Despite their eight foot heights, when green, Arundo is easy to traverse, as it’s soft. But, in fall when they tan they become a little brittle. With a wind helping them they can give a wanderer a good slap in the face. But this was soft summer.

Arundo; property of the author.

Being near the pooch day’s afternoon ground, Genevieve, Dillon, and Joseph had little problem with that. What did eventually become somewhat of a solvable setback was that the driftway became more and more slender, and then vanished wholeheartedly where the land gently sloped uphill, much like a pleasant dream which dissipates when eyes open. Now again of necessity in single file Joseph led the way. It seemed only fair for him to “make the path” as it had been his unchallenged idea to head inland.

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The trio trod tirelessly and timelessly on; at times without target discernable to anyone else; as the lofty cottonwoods, even in their adolescence, and the intermittent clouds blocked their view of anything else. They trusted their senses which suggested that they were more or less, generally going in the right direction.

Cottonwoods; property of the author.

Upon exiting the forest, a flattened grass field became their path. Genevieve said; “I don’t think that I’ve ever been here before. Look at the cranes!”

Joseph said; “Me either. Looks strange. Rapidtown has nothing like this.”

Dillon said; “A flock of cranes have congregated here, maybe expecting to be undetected.”

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Congregating cranes; property of the author.

Genevieve said; “That description could almost fit Billy and Jack.”

Puzzled, Joseph said; “Billy and Jack?”

Genevieve answered; “Our protectors. They live out here somewhere.” Genevieve covered her mouth with a paw, and said;

“Ooooh.” Then the three saw something which they had never seen or heard of previously. It seemed so out of place. The cranes huddled together and chanted; “errrickerrickerrrick.” It sounded something like a cross between a snore and the slow click-click of a one-way ratchet of expanding entitlements.

Joseph asked; “Do you know what they’re saying.”

Dillon replied; “Yeah. It means we best cross this area on the edges and hope the cranes don’t get peeved.”

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With Dillon in front, they scooted through on the Poochville side.

It took four times as many steps for Genevieve’s little legs to keep up. When they again reached the shelter of the next cottonwood bosque, she was panting like a pooch and said; “Why was that necessary?”

Dillon replied; “It’s better to be safe than sorry. Some creatures get suddenly ‘brave’ when they’re in a large group.”

Joseph said; “You’ve been to Rapidtown?”

Dillon said; “I’ve seen some films and pictures.”

Joseph looked at Dillon and said; “ ............ “

Dillon said; “MSM News – Crime and Justice.”

Genevieve said; “Don’t look at me. I don’t watch it.”

Joseph said; “The ‘reality’ show is kind of one sided, as there is plenty of real crime and little real justice.”

Dillon asked; “In what direction do you mean?”

Joseph said; “Just over the hill in Rapidtown for example.

I don’t need to bring in the atrocities the main stream media grudgingly covers in the likes of Chicago, Portland, Seattle,

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New York, and Minneapolis. The collared rioters, looters, arsonists, murderers, drug dealers, and their un-collared, dumb, or frightened collaborationists are above reproach there, and take advantage of that to enhance their natural tendencies to be destructive, mean spirited wastes and be even worse, pushing it, pushing it; while those not collared, fraidy cat dupes, or the police are held to the highest standard of gentility. Kind of one-sided in favor of the garbage. Wouldn’t you say? Bottom line, the decent quietly leave, allowing the libtard city authorities to follow their ‘advanced’ South Chicago role model, perennially seeking more money to pay for the ‘unfair disadvantage’ caused by the un-collared flight. Previously minorly-existent ‘collarism’ replaces abracadabra and becomes a magic word used by the collared genie to pry open any excuse box, store window, and cash register.”

Genevieve said; “Even worse, I’ve read that by saying such things you can have your social media posts deleted, maybe the entire account.” She put her right paw to her mouth for a few seconds and looked horrified, as if she had seen the four horsemen of the hominid apocalypse. Changing tone, she added;

“Oh well. What can one do without access to Phasebook?”

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Joseph said; “Easy. Shoot and kill some offenders. They’re not as stupid as they look and sound. They know damn well what they are allowed to get away with.”

Dillon said; “What about the effect of their main stream media supporters?”

Joseph shrugged and said; “I don’t know. It’s not going to go away. But, anyone dumb enough to buy into all their obviously biased agenda is either intimidated, terrified, a collaborationist, or too dumb to waste time speaking to.”

Dillon said; “There is hope. They’re advertising-money driven. When we stop tuning in, they’ll quickly reverse field.”

Joseph laughed while he spurted out; “Yeah. The problem is that they are amusing, and we all like to giggle over something more brainless than we are.”

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11 –Willy’s

Genevieve sort of interrupted, saying; “Well, we’ve covered a lot of territory, and Dillon and I are back to the point where we started this trip.”

Dillon said; “Oh yeah. I was too busy talking. Our house is just a bit beyond those marked logs.”

Joseph hid his natural reaction to suddenly realizing that he would imminently be homeless, and just said; “That went so quickly. I guess this is goodbye.”

Genevieve said; “Yes. I guess. Nice meeting you Joseph.”

A rumbling in the brush produced Genevieve and Dillon’s old pals and bosque dwellers, the protective scotties, Billy and Jack.

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Billy and Jack; property of the author.

Billy said; “Greetings old friends and all of that. We couldn’t help but see that you have a new buddy. Buddy, are you accustomed to these parts?”

Joseph said; “The name is Joseph. And no, I’m not. Just got in from Rapidtown.”

Jack said; “Is that so? What a coincidence. Ummm, ummm, ummm. Our new pal Rex over here, just got in a month ago. Used to be a cop over there when you were allowed to be one. Meet Rex. He’s much more gentle than he might look, but also adds some muscle over here when needed.”

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Rex; property of the author.

Genevieve said; “Those soulful eyes are a dead giveaway.”

Hellos and introductions flew all over the place, like a swarm of happy, disease carrying Chinese bats, aided, abetted, and in “secret” partnership with the unqualified terrorist in charge of the World Health Obstruction (WHO), an “expertly”

claimed diversion.

A bushtit eeped and eeped and eeped while leaving its lower safe spot inside an Apache Plume bush, and flying to a treetop; its unusual behavior drawing everyone’s attention. The tiny, solitary, bluish-rosy bird made such a tweeting fuss as it flew, one might have thought that someone had posted something super offensive and-or super true on the site of a hominid “social”

media monopoly editor and censor, thereby legally volunteering to be responsible for any damages caused by their viewable content; begging the contrary thought that sans a corporate death wish, they must have been brighter than that to have achieved such prominence in the hominid world. Surely, there must be some secret trick.

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Bushtit; property of the author.

Rex tucked his smart phone away and said; “Joseph is all right. Squeaky clean in Rapidtown; one of the few.”

The group amiably conversed for a few minutes; chuckle producing one-liners as abundant as they were wished to be at hominid toddy time. Genevieve broke the levity barrage by saying to Dillon; “I think we better head home. I’ve been running on empty for a while now, and need the sleep.”

Goodbyes were exchanged, during which Dillon realized that Joseph probably had no place to stay. He mentioned that, looking to Billy, Jack, and Rex. Jack said; “We’d like to, but with Rex now here we’re more than full up. The little place hardly fit the two of us.”

Genevieve said; “Maybe you could work in staggered shifts.”

Jack said; “Maybe. But that’s really unwieldy, especially in bad weather.”

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Joseph was actually offended by the direction of the

“helpful” inquiry. He was a proud pooch who had survived the atrocities of Rapidtown, and didn’t want to be thought of as a burdensome charity case. Christ, he had made it through the frigid, snow-packed Denials without any help and without the covering of any roof. Down here in the warmth it would be easy.

He said; “Whoa, whoah, whoah, whoah, whoah. Don’t get me wrong.

I appreciate your intent, but I’ll be fine here.”

Genevieve said; “That’s so brave of you.”

Joseph said; “That’s so condescending of you.”

Dillon asked; “Are you any good with house repair-handyman type of work?”

Joseph replied; “That’s how I got by in Rapidtown; with a 4.4 out of 5 overall rating on the web.”

Dillon said; “Our old handyman on Pacific Lane, Willy, left to take up with some girl on Dove Lane. We could use another.”

Joseph said; “ ................. “

Dillon said; “Well, maybe you’ll give it some thought. The job comes with a house and access to the community pantry, when necessary.”

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Joseph said; “You didn’t mention pay.”

Dillon said; “We don’t have money in Poochville, if that’s what you mean, and you don’t need any of that worthless paper.

That’s a hominid-Rapidtown-delusion thing.”

Joseph said; “That’s intriguing. Maybe I ought to have a look.”

Billy, Jack, and Rex left; Rex saying; “Looks like the situation is well in paw.”

Dillon said; “How about now? You don’t have to make any decisions today.”

Genevieve said; “I’m really tired and my leg hurts.”

Dillon said; “We’re headed back. Okay? I’m not tired. We can walk you back to our house, and if he’s amenable, Joseph and I can continue on to Willy’s old place. You can make it the few more steps home on your own. Can’t you?”

Genevieve said; “With great difficulty,” coupled with a smile which meant; “Of course.”

Joseph said; “That would be quite fine with me, but I wouldn’t want to put Genevieve out any.”

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Genevieve said; “Nonsense. I’d be even more ‘put out’ if you made me an excuse for not doing what you wish.”

Dillon silently looked to Joseph as if the ball was in his court, and Joseph said; “Fine. Let’s take a look.”

The trio took the short stroll to Genevieve and Dillon’s house. Despite the discomfort in her nagging back leg, she made it to the front door and used her key to let herself in, waving;

“Bye” to the two male pooches. Genevieve made a bee-line for her bed and flopped into it with a happy sigh. Dillon and Joseph accessed Pacific Lane and walked in tandem the few doors to Willy’s old house.

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Roy’s Hotel and Café and “The Weight” by the Band; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.

They turned on the path to Willy’s. Dillon retrieved the key from under the welcome mat and opened the front door, gesturing Joseph to enter.

After a few minutes of slow moving investigation, Dillon said; “What do you think?”

“Plenty of room. Nice views. A little musty. ...... No complaint. I just need to open some windows and do a little dusting.”

“That sounds positive.”

“So far so good. Look! He left a book.”

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Dewey; public domain.

”And a fine one I understand it to be.”

“Dewey is a cat. Do you have cats here?”

Dillon sensed the possibility of a deal breaker. Other thoughts and retorts aside, primarily because anyone who was on Pacific Lane for a few hours would see that there were cats in residence, he said; “Yes, there have been six or seven for a few years now. They all live in Clement’s big house.”

“Just curious as this place is named Poochville, no pun intended.”

“No pun discerned.”

“Of possible significance, what I’m not seeing is tools.”

“Hmmmnnn. I don’t know. Maybe Willy kept them outside. If not, I suppose new ones can be obtained.”

Joseph grunted intending no blatant direction, while privately wary and wondering if he was being set up to fail. He had seen that happen numerous times in Rapidtown; a collared dog (pooch?) would be given a job of some responsibility without the resources necessary to do it; then blamed for the failure.

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Dillon said; “Let’s go outside.”

There was no shed. But, along the overgrown grass at the edge of the back fence were tools; hammers, saws, screwdrivers, wrenches, and some other odd things only one experienced in repair work might know what to do with.

Joseph said; “Looks good to me. But, day to day; no contract. I want to keep my options open.”

Dillon said; “No meaningless paper offered,” and gave Joseph the key. He went home and joined sleeping Genevieve in their bed, spaciously thinking about her knack in always getting a head start.

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12 –Walking Hellos

Genevieve and Dillon hit the road early the following morning under fair skies and comfortable summer morning semi-warmth. They soon discovered that they were actually late, as Pacific Lane was already smattered with a few baker’s dozen of pooches, mostly milling about the community’s center; Barney and Clara’s. Upon noticing them, the group cast furtive glances in the direction of Genevieve and Dillon; being obvious in their attempt to not be obvious.

Genevieve said; “Must have gotten wind of Joseph.”

“I made note of no flatulence yesterday.”

“Any regurgitation?”

Dillon said; “Yup, as much as any indie writer, but no worse. I probably should have taken a poll yesterday, but I was tired and thought I knew the outcome beforehand.”

“Pooches like being consulted.”

“Yeah. Well, here goes the required consultative blip-blop-blap. I’m glad it’s early and that I’m well rested. You?”

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“Pretty much. Might have been better if somebody didn’t make a fuss and wake me. But, I half expected this. No, nine tenths.”

“Well, things could have been worse. Just imagine if a few of your hated hominids were here.”

“I don’t hate them. It’s just that I feel so much better when there aren’t any of them around.”

Genevieve and Dillon nonchalantly walked to those who were standing away from the rest of the group. Since it was their property upon which everyone chose to congregate; Barney, Clara, and their son Gizmo all looked fussed, ostensibly after the pleasant excitement of having uninvited company had worn off.

Genevieve coyly asked; “What on or in Poochville is going on?”

Clara, Barney, and gizmo; property of the author.

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Clara looked at her as if she had said something half as stupid as loudmouthed hominid pan flash, (Minor) Annoyance Occasional Cortez ((M)AOC), though with more civility and devoid of a potty mouth. She said; “It is with a presumptive sense of apprehension tempered by a glorious wonder, and a desire to maintain the latter, which compels them to congregate here.”

Dillon said; “Oh; the usual stuff.”

Barney said; “Yeah, I suppose. I’m just curious why they’re here when it was you who brought in the newcomer.”

Dillon said; “I’d guess that it’s because of your immaculate front lawn. ........ Not sure, but since you more or less asked.”

Gizmo said; “Who did you put in Willy’s house yesterday?”

Genevieve said; “Well, Willy wrote us and we don’t expect him to be coming back from Dove Lane and Abigail any time soon.

And if he does, they can share. It’s Joseph, a very nice pooch, and also a needed handyman.”

Barney said; “Why didn’t you just tell everyone yesterday?”

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Genevieve said; “I was more or less not involved, and slept through the key part.”

Dillon said; “I was dog tired when it was semi-settled, and slept next to Genevieve. ....... I had no idea that you’d all find Joseph to be such of an issue this quickly. He’s not exactly the Phantom of the Opera, you know.”

Confusing matters with a giggle completely internalized, Genevieve said; “The Phantom of the Opera is a fifty percent accurate analogy. I’d have said the Black Hand in the negative and the Hunchback of Notre Dame in the positive, myself.

Nonetheless, be assured that your ill made point was well taken.”

Dillon said; “Give me a break. That was impromptu. It’s so easy to be a critic.”

Genevieve said; “That was just as impromptu, more or less.”

While Dillon murmured an almost un-hearable grunt of grudging or amused approval, Barney said; “Whatever. Check out his background?”

Dillon said; “Sure. Clean. Billy and Jack checked him.

Joseph is from Rapidtown, and despite that, he has had no infractions.”

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By this time, the rest of the congregation had drawn near.

The collective gasp which was emitted at the mention of Rapidtown could not be denied, except by the pooch irrelevant deletions of Phasebook and the like. Snouts attached to ears even more finely tuned and larger than those of hominid Muslim Osama in drolly odd fear of flying, most noticeably wiggled while on the ground, believe it or not.

Daisy and her husband Waylon were cautiously peering at the scene. Genevieve was startled when she almost bumped into their silent caution. She put her right front paw to her chest and said; “I’ve already had a lifetime’s worth of shocks today. You shouldn’t sneak up on someone like that.” She had considered putting both front paws on her chest, but thought better of it when she realized that would necessitate standing on her hind legs or lying flat on the ground; more extreme positions than she wanted to take under the otherwise modest circumstances.

Daisy said; “Sorry, Genevieve. We were just wondering what was going on at Willy’s.”

Waylon added; “Yeah. We’re getting’ treated as if we have no say so here, and the price of liberty is eternal vigilantism, or at least participation in one of the many ‘expert’ polls.”

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Daisy and Waylon; property of the author.

Dillon said; “So sorry your requirement of immediacy was unfulfilled. Perhaps your connection to my bodycam is faulty, though your vigilantism is most appreciated and indeed necessary, no matter its treatment on Main Street.”

Waylon said; “Au contraire, mon ami. That entirely depends upon the safest point of view at the capricious and whimsical moment.”

Genevieve said; “I’m glad to hear that I’m not the only one who thinks that way.”

Drifting here and there, Waylon had come to Poochville by way of his origin in Grainsilotown, Arkansas; his preferred view of grain silos and snapping-crop-protective-traps in the rear view mirror. He had a wandering spirit which was only briefly curtailed by a few stops in southern small town jails, for being

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the only “stranger’ around when some of the locals pulled off some scam, thereby becoming heroes to the “Progessives.” More or less, he just kept moving until he got to Poochville and met Daisy. He has been settled ever since.

Daisy was born in Poochville and had lived there all her life. Rather than wander, her instincts were to “root in.” And why not? There was no better place for a pup to call home.

Internet “news” informed her of the criminal, undesirable, bizarre happenings in the hominid world as if their garbage was competent, had entertainment value, or was of any significance, though it didn’t take a genius to see how the main stream practitioners of information overplayed their naively, severe-left take on all matters considered. Obvious inaccuracies aside, it was enough for her to shun Hominidville, as Daisy’s took sufficient message from the medium. In addition to its implied epistle of “why would anyone want to go here?” that it was a hominid game with no effect upon Poochville made it as funny as another announcement from the un-credentialed little terrorist wog which the Equal Opportunity Commission (EEOC) lobbied heavily to put in charge of the World Health Obstruction (WHO), he both enabling the WHO organization to live up to its grand name, while simultaneously registering a plus for EEOC efforts.

An extremely high level of multi-tasking ability was almost

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fully demonstrated through the collusion with jealous, Yellow, National People’s Congress (NPC an oxymoron), unelected by the community; a contagious, commie, and compulsive crown controlling command.

Using all of her natural Dalmatian energy she engaged her wandering lusts through long, pleasant walks by the river. She’d

“disappear” for hours in the nearby wild, going through all the non-paths others had not taken. The natural land near the Boggy Cleave River was perfect for her. Her deceivingly thick coat could withstand the coldest of days. It also protected her skin from the briars and thorns which stopped every other less cloaked Poochville adventurer. She went where only she could and saw things no one else would ever see or understand. For instance, the shallow water at the edge of the overflow ditch was most always warm. Even on the coldest of winter mornings, if the sun was unobstructed, it would be like a spill from a hot tub. The tiny frogs liked it the most. They were no more than a quarter of an inch in size; but sometimes there were so many of them that when she sought water Daisy would have to be careful not to step on or swallow one of the tiny beings. Apparently content to be frolicking in the warm water, the little buggers seemed to pay no attention to her whatsoever.

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Waylon interrupted the compound reverie saying; “Hang on there, chief. We just like to know the neighborhood news.”

Daisy said; “Don’t be too hard on him. There’s always a lag between the event and the reporting of it. Just look at the currently black hominid managed New York Times. At least Dillon has not taken the time to massage the story in any preferred direction.”

Genevieve said; “Thank you. Besides, we should all know by now that if Poochville was under any risk, Billy, Jack, and their new partner Rex would be right here, on the case. It’s strange in a way, but their absence is a good sign.” She craned her neck around to make sure that they were not present.

By this time the rest of the Pacific Lane crew had positioned themselves within earshot of the conversation, ears of varying sizes attuned.

The front yarders circled about like a typical silent majority, well bestowed with the internalized confidence which doesn’t require maximum decibels to indicate that any say so reached was ultimately theirs. One not familiar with this approach might have thought that they seemed to be in a daze; not unlike that of a hominid Democrat presidential candidate; especially old Clement.

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Old Clement; property of the author.

It is directly proportional to age, how things, no matter how inconsequential, can be truly alarming when something with which you have become accustomed and comfortable with has been changed. Complicating simple matters a bit for the Pacific Lane residents was that most of them had been there so long without any change, with the exception of the arrival of the homeless kittens who now lived with Clement, they had come to subliminally associate “change” with “the ruination of the continuance of perfection.” Indeed, if something is perfect, any change must render it imperfect. While not exactly a crisis of Lawrentian proportion; concern was undoubtedly warranted, as the

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only remaining censor was the Zuckerboy “AI” bot from Phasebook, which was still challenged, but said to be “making progress” in the reading of concepts contained within images.

So, convenient to all parties involved, this twice double-bound problem was treated as “new,” and in some sense it was; being a first in Poochville’s collective current memory.

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Incomplete Pacific Lane collage; property of the author.

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13 –The POV’s Proliferate

The comfortable sameness of Pacific Lane was potentially semi-broken. Despite it being only a potential, it was nevertheless unsettling. Good old Willy had been replaced by a stranger. So far, the peaceful quiet had continued, but with the ominous presence of an unseen interloper, it was a worrisome quiet. It seemed to suggest an uncomfortable anti-anti-stasis.

The tall trees which everyone had loved for their majesty, beauty, summer shade, and autumn colors were now potential hiding spots for an injurious gatecrasher. Every shadow was now a potential menacing predator; their “evil” aims a frightening unknown; taken to the maximum “new” depths of worried, confused and previously untouched minds.

Clement was slowly pacing the periphery with his fly-catching mouth as open as any hominid libtard in search of some articulated “justification” for a seriously inherent flaw of original Sin proportion. There wasn’t anything particular which he wanted to say in the affirmative, and there was not yet enough presented to compel bothering with a half-assed negative.

For the uninitiated, it might have been construed as the predominant “approach” comfortable older creatures take most all of the time; until a common fly inevitably and impolitely disturbs their slack jawed serenity. No doubt their jaw muscles

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aren’t what they used to be; but that’s not really what it’s about. That’s much too simple an explanation to have any of the required meta considerations, as opposed to the fine distinctions imposed by archaic “reality.” Whatever the physical or non-physical diagnosis assigned to his exterior, Clement’s eyes told a different story. He looked as confused as Joe Biden when the monitor goes blank, and as disoriented as he did when he first arrived on Pacific Lane years ago.

Despite the age shown by his whitening coat and his five years’ time of habitation, Clement was actually one of Pacific Lane’s newest adult residents. Waylon was the first to have seen the stranger in the neighborhood. “Just passin’ through,” was all of what Clement wanted to say. Waylon thought that he posed no threat and that he might have been homeless. The Pug family, Bailey and Temporala, had just vacated their house at 858

Pacific Lane. They had moved to Orlando, Florida, wanting to be near their growing pups. Waylon asked if Clement would like to stay there a while. That’s all it took. That was it. And Clement was still there.

Easygoing Clement fit in with the rest of the residents well. He was always the first to offer a cheery “Good day” to anyone he met on his morning walks; but little else. He kept the particulars to himself and slept away a lot of the rest of the

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day. He never spoke of his past. Most pooches didn’t want to press him on the matter. They were content that he was a good neighbor and suspected that there were things he didn’t want to talk about, bringing up uninteresting and unproductive bad memories for him.

When Gizmo was a very little pup, like any curious child, he boldly asked Clement where he was from. Clement said; “All over the place. My father was in the military and we moved all the time. It’s nice to have a real home.”

Genevieve approached Clement. Initially, he didn’t take notice of her as his mind was somewhere else, deep in thought.

He actually bristled when she called his name; as if he had just accidentally touched something carrying uncontrolled static electricity; a brief hint at an uncontrollable mini lightning bolt. He then composed himself and evenly said; “Hi, Genevieve.

What is this all about?”

His question surprised her in a way. She thought that by now everyone present knew that there was a new Pacific Lane resident; otherwise there was no discernable reason for the mass gathering. Genevieve, just a tad wary and coyly reciprocal replied; “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

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Dillon nodded and grunted something which was taken for affirmation.

Clement said; “The newcomer at Willy’s, of course. Oh, look! The Pawsborne quads are sniffing at something, just like that Biden hominid. I hope it’s not a little girl.”

Genevieve said; “Yes. Let’s hope not.”

She and Dillon walked ten feet to the four pups. The Pawsborne quadruplets; Elmo, Sarah, Ozzy and Bernadette stopped their sniffing at the sound of paw steps. Genevieve purposely brushed by Ozzy, and before she could say anything, Ozzy said;

“Just working on the skills required to be a Democrat high office candidate.”

Dillon said; “You guys must have been spending some time on the hominid net. Be careful; it’s full of fake news on the main stream.”

Ozzy said; “I know. Actually, there is an unfamiliar scent here.”

Clement said; “Ooooh, could be a dangerous interloper.”

Genevieve thought that Clement’s comment was unnecessarily worrying and silly; and could give the little children nightmares. Maybe even worse, it was a prime candidate for

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politically correct deletion if posted to the social web. She said; “No. No. It’s probably just our new Pacific Lane resident, Joseph. He’s just another nice pooch, just like us ....... more or less.”

Elmo still seemed worried and he stuttered out; “W-w-w-what does he l-l-look like?”

Dillon stroked Elmo’s head and said; “He looks like a pooch, barks like a pooch, walks on four legs like a pooch, and for all intents and purposes should be considered a pooch, until someone can prove otherwise.”

Quiet little Sarah seemed fearful and chirped; “What should we do if we see him?”

Genevieve looked at Clement and said; “See! You should not have said that.”

Clement calmly retorted; “I am not responsible. All of those nasty white hominid devils made me do it.”

Dillon said; “Sarah, don’t pay any attention to him.”

Clement hung his old gray-white head as he walked away mumbling something about a pooch’s life.

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Tardiff and Lenta cautiously approached Genevieve and Lenta whispered; “It’s all right. Isn’t it?” She and Tardiff were an adorable couple. They were full grown Shelties and looked exactly like collies, but were about one third their size.

Little Genevieve could look them right in their engaging brown eyes without looking up or down.

The inseparable Sheltie duo simultaneously said; “Good morning, Genevieve. Lovely morning.”

Genevieve said; “Good morning.”

Dillon said; “Busy one. Good morning.”

As the Shelties were again largely unaware of other pooch’s

“issues,” Tardiff said; “Is there a party here at Barney and Clara’s? I don’t know of any special event.”

Genevieve replied; “Not that I know of. Everyone is concerned about our new Pacific Lane resident.“

Another pooch approached. It was Bella. Bella was probably the most misnamed pooch in all of Poochville. It was not at all that she wasn’t the prettiest of pooches. It was that she had always been one who expected the worst. She had spent her entire life in carefree Poochville, but always expected the worst. She was a Corgi and had a long term Corgi companion named Lucky.

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Some dogs privately joked that he might have been even more misnamed. Bella had spent much time goggling conspiracy theories and came to “specialize” in the one which claimed that the forty-eight year old hominid moon landing was faked because the shape shifting alien reptiles in charge of their world wanted to impress the green people who live on Mars that Earth is no technological slouch, and that somehow all earthly pooches were harmed by this hominid farce.

Genevieve said; “Hi Bella. Hi Lucky. We have a new neighbor.”

Bella said; “See. I’ve been telling you all that something bad was going to happen.”

Lucky looked at Genevieve and facetiously said; “Poochville invasion?”

Genevieve said; “Yes. We may now have a monster in our midst. ........ Don’t blame me. Dillon made it happen.”

Dillon calmly retorted; “I am not responsible. All of those nasty white hominid devils made me do it.”

Bella said; “I told you something bad was going to happen.

I was right, and an inside job to boot.”

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Lucky said; “You’ve been saying that for ten years. Even a stopped watch, etc. etc.”

Bella said; “I have always been ahead of my time.”

Lucky laughed and again looked at Genevieve, saying; “This girl thinks that she’s a Corgi. But, I bet there’s a lot of Basset Hound in her.”

Bella said; “One hundred percent Corgi.”

Lucky said; “I’ve never seen any papers.”

Bella gave him a little whack with her paw. Lucky again looked at Genevieve and said; “We know those jokes about her name. They’re actually wrong in a sense. Her name is Bella, but it is spelled with one “L,” as in Bela Lugosi.” He made as if he was using a cape to shield him from the light.

Lucky ran toward Barney and Clara’s house with Bella playfully chasing him.

Genevieve and Dillon watched them for a second, smiled, and then again looked forward, to see Maureen.

Maureen was a solitary oriented Beagle mix; a bit on the large side, suggestive of some Lab ancestry. She always smiled politely and acted cordially. But, Genevieve had always

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suspected that Maureen didn’t feel entirely at ease around other pooches, and like all the residents of Poochville liked hominids a substantially lesser amount. Maureen never went out of her way to avoid pooches; but a long term viewing suggested that it was as if she most always said precisely what was expected to be said and kept the conversation brief. At times she had a faraway look in her eyes as if she was dreaming of somewhere else. She never said anything about that, perhaps because she considered it private, or perhaps because it might not have been appreciated in perfect Poochville. Most importantly everyone liked her, wished they felt closer, but respected Maureen’s seemingly distant and polite wishes.

When Maureen neared, she stopped and in her customary minimalist, slow and calm cadence said; “Willy’s been replaced?”

With her first brief sentence Maureen confirmed Genevieve’s view of her. Genevieve said; “More or less. I might say changed myself. But Bella’s prognostications of doom might have finally been vindicated.”

Nonchalantly, Maureen said; “The Anti-Christ has come to Poochville.”

Genevieve said; “You’re not upset?”

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Maureen said; “He is risen,” and resumed her slowly meandering solitaire toward the most imminent byway; Pacific Lane, pausing once to say; “I hope we are not mimicking the latest hominid relapse into criminal adulation.”

Genevieve said; “I’d be the first to protest.”

Dillon said; “And I’d be right behind you.”

Genevieve shot him a look, and Dillon smiled.

Maggie and Tanner gingerly stepped into the space near Genevieve and Dillon previously occupied by Moving Maureen.

Maggie had a few years on Tanner, and this occasionally came into play in their planned activities. Neither could be considered “young,” and maybe this united them in a way others couldn’t fully comprehend. They wanted their remaining years to be a constant source of life affirming happiness. They could joke about it too. One time while talking with Genevieve down by the river, Genevieve said something about being tired; therefore having to head back home. Tanner replied; “That’s what happens all the time with Maggie. Whenever we get something good going, she needs a nap.” For that he had gotten a bit of a playful nudge which didn’t exactly bowl him over.

Morning greetings were exchanged prior to Maggie asking Genevieve about Pacific Lane’s new resident.

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Genevieve skirted the question, saying; “The investigation is obviously underway.”

Tanner said; “Investigation? An investigation of what?”

Maggie patted Tanner’s head. Though looking at him her words were directed at Genevieve and Dillon; “He’s so cute. If he was a hominid he’d be a Democrat Congressional person.”

Genevieve said; “Dillon knows more than anyone, but he’s been experimenting with irritating minimalism lately.”

Dillon said; “Not one word.”

Maggie shrugged and said; “I guess we’ll all meet him and make up our own minds.”

Dillon said; “Exactamundo on the former.”

Genevieve said; “Optimal thinking upon the latter.”

Dillon said; “Don’t blame me when you insist upon being provocative.”

This time it was Genevieve who smiled at Dillon.

Tanner said; “Okay. Okay. Making sense to me now,” and led by him the couple stepped a few steps back toward their seemingly stipulated pooch grouping.

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Maggie said; “I think I need a nap,” while grinning just a bit.

Pablo and Rufus stepped into the picture. Pablo seemed playfully reminiscent of what he was certain that Genevieve and Dillon had just been seeing and hearing offering a Burroughs-esque “There over pooch new old Willy’s huh.” greeting.

Rufus laughed, but quickly sought to stifle it; substantially successful, but for his left front, hanging chad giveaway.

Dillon said; “Obviously.”

Pablo said; “More needed?”

Genevieve said; “Some Pollock never hurts.”

Rufus said; “The last performance.”

Potentially there were other commentaries; but they were held in abeyance as in near unison the crowd mumbled a more or less common insistence upon meeting the newcomer.

Waylon suggested that the group go to Willy’s old house.

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14 -Experiential Doggedness

Dillon became a smidgeon more talkative, saying; “Bad idea.

Bad idea. If we all descend upon Joseph’s house at once, he’s liable to freak out, thinking it one of those BLM-Antifa hominid

‘protests’ replete with incendiary devices, looting, and assault. Joseph knows me a bit; so let me go get him and I’ll bring him back here.”

Genevieve reclined in the summer flowers.

Genevieve; property of the author.

Joseph answered Dillon after a few knocks, saying; “I’m sorry, friend. I was all wrapped up in fixing the leak in the bathroom tub. There is so much to do here.”

Dillon said; “That’s surprising.”

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Joseph said; “Not really. Most often pooches neglect their own home work. After having spent their day doing it for others, it’s the last thing they want to do when they get back.”

Dillon said; “Well, can you put that on hold for a while?

You’ve got some public relations work to do. ....... Your neighbors are dying to meet you.”

“Oh, oh. Sure. Let me just shut the main and clean up a little.”

“Sure.”

In the company of Dillon, Joseph took a break to meet the curious, but congenial group. After the group gathered around, Joseph scratched at the invisible remnants of the marks around his neck, more a sign of shyness than an itch. There were lots of smiles. He said; “Hi everyone. I’m Joseph and I’d like to be your new handyman.”

What was most exceptional was that nothing exceptional took place, if one overlooks the exceptionality of new neighbors optimistically smiling and looking forward to getting to know one another better.

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Roller skating group and “Good Times” by Chic, Nile Rodgers; property of the author, the latter under both the “fair use” and “transformative” doctrines.