By the Book Sandy Vrooman
My forced retirement from Bibble and BlakeAccounting
Services was an abrupt change, but; I found a little dog, a lot like me, who woke me every day at precisely six forty five a.m. - weekday or weekend. I would prepare my English muffin and tea, and give the little dog his kibble. Next we took out the trash and watered the garden. At twelve noon, I had a boiled egg and cottage cheese, after lunch the little dog and I took a nap. At two thirty he woke me and we checked the mail. From three p.m. till dinner time we did those things that needed to be done, but not every day. On Monday it was laundry, Tuesday was house cleaning, Wednesday grocery shopping. On Thursday we pulled weeds in the garden, Friday we went to the library, Saturday was a day to take tea, and Sunday a day of rest and meditation.
On a morning that started as usual, it happened. A large rat stood between us and the garbage can. The littledog barked, but the rat would not move. I just knew he would be there every morning. Isn’t that how things work? We could no longer empty the trash, let alone leave the house by the back door, the best way to the outside world. I began storing trash in the basement in an orderly pattern until I found another solution. With great reluctance, I had groceries delivered. We could at least continue eating.
We heard the skitterings of rats below. I locked that door and used the back bedroom for trash. Soon I heard rats everywhere. The little dog and I felt safest in the front bedroom.
One morning the little dog did not wake me. He was there at the foot of the bed, stiff and lifeless. I had to put him in the freezer. Without hisprotection, I could no longer open the door, knowing the rats were waiting. The mail box was overflowing and the house was quite full of trash. No longer trusting even phone contact with the outside, the automatic grocery orders began to pile up on the step. I had stopped eating.
When they came for me, I would not open the door, perhaps the rat and his minions had colluded with them to get me. The home they sent me to felt safe with bars on thewindow and a locked door, but they didn’t bring me the right things to eat. Imagine oatmeal and coffee for breakfast. When they strapped me to the bed and stuck the needle in my arm, I knew everything was lost. Those rats had won after all.
First published: August, 2009 comments to the writer: doorknobsandbodypaint@gmail.com
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