Death Of The Albino Blob Monster
I kept hearing an odd noise last night. I would wake up, see what the dogs were doing, and because they weren’t reacting I didn’t think to get up and look around. I’m way back in the woods, but I’m also surrounded by farmers, hunters, and foresters, and all manner of folk that have big machines. Perhaps someone had left something running, or someone had some sort of pump going. It was a very low level hissing noise, like the air being let out of a bicycle tire.

At four, both dogs wanted to go out, and whatever it was they were reacting was something they wanted to go out and chase, not something that was wanting in. I let them out, went out into the front yard to pee, and listened. Bug noises are what I have here at night, mostly, and I can hear the big trucks on US221 at the end of the driveway. I didn’t hear the hissing noise, and because I didn’t, I just assumed whatever it was wasn’t real. The stars are real, and there were a million or so hovering around the stops of the trees, just waiting for me to climb up and grab a few. Whatever Bert and Sam was after they were crashing through the underbrush in the back, I could hear them running around, and I wondered what dogs thought stars were. I’m pretty sure they think the moon is some sort of god, at least inasmuch as dogs believe in gods. The stars do not help them out that much, so maybe they’re demigods. It’s four in the morning and I’m standing in the front yard considering the spiritual nature of dogs as it relates to the cosmos. Worse things have happened to a man, yea.

Usually, the dogs stay out once they are released before I get up. It’s the rule; wake me up before I’m supposed to get up and you have to stay out until I do get up. But I’ve tarried in the front yard long enough for them to appear on the back porch just as I’m heading back to bed. Let us in, Mike, you let these dogs in so they may tell you of their courage and bravery in chasing away the evil armadillos in the night. Sigh. I let them in and it’s Christmas and four fifteen in the morning.

Sam is a flopper. Give Sam a blanket on the floor and that’s where he’ll go, and that is where he’ll stay, too. Sam beelines to the blanket, lies down and thumps his tail. Bert has to check the window, snuffle a pair of socks on the floor, pad around to the other side of the bed to make sure I’m not joking about everyone going back to sleep, and then he will wander from one side of the room to the other trying to find the spot he was in when it felt most excellent. Bert is a watchdog, and so we winds himself up before he lies down, circle, circle, circle, and after the third circle, Bert drops in his tracks as if he’s just died. When he does it on the floor it’s merely loud. When he does it when he’s on the bed it’s a minor earthquake. It’s too hot for the three of us to sleep on the same bed, and because I am the bringing of dog food, I get to stay topside. It will be October before they venture up again, migrating mutts heading up for the winter.

It’s nothing I’ve seen before, and for an instant I cannot image what has happened. Had I truly been thinking I would have taken a photo before I started playing with it. But someone time during the night a brand new can of shaving cream decided to bleed out on the sink. A white mass of foam sits on the counter of the sink like some albino science fiction blob monster, biding its time, gather its fury, and waiting to terrorize beards and women’s legs. I pick the mass up in one piece and it snarls at me, quietly. I’ve gotten here just in time, so it seems, before it is fully formed and mature enough to pounce.

It does occur to me this would have been so much funnier had I been on a trip, and the can died inside of my shaving bag, or suitcase. I throw the monster into the shower and turn the knob. It screams an impotent scream as the water cannons fire away ( can water cannons fire away? Shouldn’t that be water cannons watering away?) and the multi caliber shower head ends the threat to humanity.

I drag a can of shaving cream out of my overnight bag and use it. I think leaving the old can where it sits is a good idea for right now. Creep out of your container during the night and the next morning you’ll be showered into oblivion.

Take Care,

StarPoet   StarPoet wrote
on 6/26/2008 3:49:41 AM
Mike you have an extraordinary gift of seeing the everyday and ordinary in a new and different and even funny as hell way.They say that is a sign of genius.

penname   penname wrote
on 6/24/2008 5:42:27 PM
the name, Sam, is so literary. Lots come to mind. "showered into oblivion" that kept reverberating through my head long after i read this. truly intriguing how this came to be and how your writing mind works.

Moqui_Takoda   Moqui_Takoda wrote
on 6/24/2008 8:20:34 AM
It is excellent, the way you use as a springboard such a miraculously amusing thing as the contents of a can of foam seeking freedom, and being controlled, to describe your dogs so well, your sleeping habits so well, the little details of your life so ... by so well I mean with an uncanny (heheh) way of making the dullest things or the finest things ... interesting. Your writes tend to make my day.

Mike Firesmith
Special Interest
writing Mike Firesmith
I write
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