THE CREATIVE URGE

For several years, back in my writing days, I had a part-time job driving a bus for the local school district. It meant splitting my writing schedule, two or three hours in the early morning before leaving to pick the kids up, and then a mid-morning session, often lasting right up until it was time to start taking the kids home.

It was an ideal for me but difficult for, our Lab-Collie cross, Gyp, who gave me faithful company in my office. She was a sweet-natured bitch, whose snoring and flatulence rarely let me forget her presence, but occasionally I’d shut her in the office when I left for the bus-run, particularly in the afternoons.

She was house-broken, but of course, when I inadvertently shut her in the house, and she was over-come by the creative urge, the inevitable happened.

Chagrined, I’d clean up the indiscretion, flush it down the john and admit nothing to Jean. Unfortunately, Jean was sometimes the first in the office, and I would be mildly scolded for my carelessness.

One morning, as I sat down to work, I spotted a very large stack of turds beside the desk. When I gathered them into a tissue, I was shocked to discover that they were hard and dry. As I flushed them, I wondered how long they had been there, and was dismayed that I hadn’t spotted them before.

Of course, I said nothing to Jean, but next day, the toilet overflowed, flooding half of the downstairs. After Butch Giammona arrived with his snake, he soon held in his gloved hand the shredded remains of dog turds. “Plastic,” Butch announced with a broad grin.

Our three children, at this time, were experimenting with out of home living. They visited us frequently, but for a long time, I didn’t know which one to blame. I just kept quiet.

Several months passed before Jenny, our youngest, finally asked:
“Dad, did you ever find the fake dog turds I left in your office?”

By then, I was able to laugh about it, barely, and Jenny and I agreed that the turds couldn’t have been more realistic.

And you thought writers led dull lives...

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  SLOTHS WITHOUT BORDERS

See him hanging upside-down,
A bale of hair, white and brown.
He moves at a deliberate pace,
A smile fixed upon his face.
The three-toed sloth is at his ease
With other creatures of the trees,
And when these creatures call a forum,
The sloth sets standards of decorum
That you and could never meet,
Sanding down here on our feet.
7/6/05

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