The Lick

It is a universal truth that young men are alarmingly determined to carry out bad decisions. If they are lucky, they have a canine best friend to act as the fall guy. The first dog in my life (and truly first happily willing scapegoat) was a medium sized rust colored female vizsla named Rika (ree-kah). While I was recently dining with my parents in their home, our conversation turned to fond remembrances of Rika.

“You remember, Brian, how Rika was such a good dog?” my mom asked. “She was always wanting to be with me and gently play and…just a very good natured dog. She was my companion while I was single and waiting for your dad to come into my life.”

My mom’s semi-absent gaze conveyed she was enjoying a distant agreeable memory. “She would sleep at the foot of the bed and lick my feet.”

“Ewww,” I responded, trying to salvage the enjoyment of my last bites of dinner while blocking the imaginary vile concoction of dog’s breath and sweaty feet.

“No, It was great!” said my mom, “Felt like someone was washing my feet with a warm washcloth.”

“But it was the dog….” I began to recall this particular foul habit of Rika’s.

“Yeah,” interjected my dad, “but your mom enjoyed it. I just made sure Rika only licked her feet. She only licked my foot one time….”

Mom took over. “You’re dad’s feet are so ticklish that the lick forced his knees to his chest and knocked the wind out of him for a few minutes. His yelp and thrashing woke me up thinking he was wrestling an intruder. In my half-asleep haze, I saw Rika running so fast I imagined she was running only on her hind legs. I think it scared her half to death, but she came back a while later and nuzzled under the covers again like nothing happened.”

“Hmmm. How odd,” I responded in a nonchalant manner that betrayed the memory presently re-assembling from the long-term storage of my brain.

---

“BRIAN! It’s Wednesday!” One of my mom’s favorite weekly phrases. (I don’t remember a week she didn’t like to chant about Wednesdays.)

“Yes mom, I know!” I blithely continued to jab my thumbs in various combinations of contortions on the game controllers, in the hypnotic glow of the television.

“Well?”

“After this level, please!?”

“Fine, but you have to get the trash out to the curb before tomorrow morning’s pickup. That means emptying all the waste baskets in the house, too. Put a new liner in them when they’re empty!” (Looking back, I’m astounded that the juvenile me needed such specific, thorough, and emphasized instructions each week for a unfailingly recurring task.)

“Yeah, ok, no problem,” came my hypnotized reply.

Some time later I realized that my bedtime was approaching annoyingly fast. Then I processed my conversation with my mom.

Sigh. “Well, better do it now,” I surrendered.

Trash duty wasn’t a particularly difficult, time consuming, or disgusting job. I just enjoy a daily dose of procrastination. Wednesdays simply happened to conveniently offer a subject for my procrastination regimen.

When I visited the trash in my parents room, thoughts of video game strategy to which I let my mind wander were abruptly interrupted by a glint of light reflected from something in the trash. I looked closer, shaking the trash to expose more of the shiny object from underneath a tissue.

York. Peppermint. Pattie.

Then I saw a second wrapper and realized there was probably a stash hidden in the room. I took up solving the mystery of the location of the stash without a second thought. The most obvious place would be the…the…

I wasn’t sure. Sock drawer? No. Dressers are the most obvious place to hide something. Closet? I didn’t find a hanging candy stash. Under the bed? Dust an inch thick except for what looked like a snow-plowed road with drifts cut sharply perpendicular against the floor. The would-be miniature snow-cleared road led to an unassuming shoebox.

I carefully slid out the box along the same dust-cleared path and lifted the lid free. Jackpot. I had just acquired a chest full of shiny silver treasure. I slowly savored one of my chocolate encrusted prize until I recognized my parent’s voices were in the stairwell.

My mind raced through a half-dozen options for an unseen retreat. It was impossible to both clean up my treacherous evidence and escape. An either-or situation. I regarded the next thought that entered my ineffably short-sighted mind as sheer genius. The plan took shape as if on its own and I went along as a grateful inmate, invited on a jailbreak masterminded by the prisoner in an adjoining cell who needed an extra set of hands to boost him over the final wall to freedom. Predictably, such a plan would conclude with the mastermind pausing perched atop the wall taking a final unscrupulous look at the unwitting pawn then dropping to freedom on the far side.

I quickly replaced the lid on the box, shoved the box along the dust-plowed track under the bed, stuffed the wrappers in my pocket, flicked off the lights, and dove under the covers to the foot of my parents’ bed and pretended to be Rika. I’m sure I wasn’t a particularly convincing dog shape, but luckily for me my parents always slept with thick down comforters which easily obscured my contorted body.

My parents went through their bedtime routine without noticing that the “dog” under the covers was me! The plan was working. Then I saw that I had been self-led into a trap. How was I supposed to get from the bed to the door and safety beyond? My mind scrambled for another genius idea, but nothing came. I determined the best course would be to “wait it out.” I’d let my parents settle into bed and fall asleep, then I’d sneak out. Hopefully Rika wouldn’t come to bed before then.

When my parents crawled into bed, I realized the second major flaw to my original brilliant idea. The presence of day-worn feet incubating under a down comforter instantly created a noxious environment which only hardy bacteria and Rika could survive. I counted the seconds, then the half-seconds, then the tenths of seconds trying to hold out as long as I could. It felt like I had managed to endure hours, but I was unsure of how long it had actually been and more importantly, if my parents had fallen asleep. I needed relief. Soon.

In my acrid, self-imposed torture chamber, I remembered my mom saying Rika licked her feet in bed. I saw my escape. I could lick her foot then pretend to crawl out from under the bed covers in the cover of darkness, like the dog heeding the call of nature. (I sure was a creative thinker back then.) The nauseating fumes prevented me to think of two crucial preparations I should have made. First, I should have bitten my tongue until it lost most feeling before the attempt. Second, I should have tried to identify who’s foot I was about to lick. Instead, I found the foot closest to my head, stuck out my tongue as far as it could reach, and licked.

“EEEEEEeee-aaaaaahhhhhhh-iiiiiaaaa!” Cried my dad, cut short by the distressing sound of his knee thumping his chest, abruptly terminating its reflexive retreat from my tongue.

I immediately determined the decision to lick would consistently rank in the bottom five decisions I would ever make. Besides the partial hearing loss caused by the volume of my dad’s cry, my tongue vehemently scolded me over my bad decision. The taste was every bit as terrible as the precursory odors.

I thought I was done for. I knew I was done for. So like any boy who’s been caught, I ran as fast as I could. In my rapid flight, I could hear my dad’s emphatic (but halting for lack of breath) protests against Rika.

“WHAT…WAS THAT…DANG DOG DOING!…CAN’T SHE TELL YOU…FROM ME ANYMORE!”

“Whatever she did, she’ll never do it again, dear. You’ve frightened her out of the room!” Soothed my bewildered mom.

I was astoundingly unrevealed! I had escaped! I silently finished my procrastinated trash chore and retired to bed a lucky escapee.

---

“Brian,” my mom got my attention after school the next day, “you forgot to empty the trash in my room. That’s part of the chore. Please go do it now.”

“Ok,” I replied. No need for procrastination today. A reward of minty chocolate awaited, arrayed in shiny silver wrappings.

(Written July 2016)

Parable of the Fisherman’s Rulebook

An old fishing boat captain hired three deckhands. The first deckhand learned from her father how to work a fishing boat. The second deckhand sought to fill his thirst for adventure on the sea. The third deckhand, a young man from the port town, knew that the old captain was a well respected fisherman.

The captain gave each new deckhand a small pamphlet and asked them to study it before reporting for duty. The pamphlet was just a few pages of hand-written bullet points and contained the captain’s rules for safety on the boat. 

The following day, the three deckhands reported for duty. The captain met them holding a well-worn notebook.

The captain explained, “Before you board the boat, I ask that you sign this notebook saying you’ve read my rules and that you will follow them. This notebook I’m holding has the signature and date of all of my crew who’s ever been where you’re standing today. If you’ve studied the rules and agree to follow them, you may add your names to this notebook.”

The first deckhand hadn’t really studied the rules because she felt she had learned enough from her father. So, she signed the notebook reasoning that her own knowledge was sufficient.

The second deckhand had read the rules and ridiculed some of them in his head as he read. He thought that some of the rules were a waste of time to follow. However, he was still eager to find adventure on the boat and signed with a half-hearted commitment.

The third deckhand had studied the rules and had questions about some of them. Yet, he was determined to trust the old captain’s words. He signed without any deception or guilt.

One night, a furious storm came upon the the boat. The three deckhands were ordered to secure the deck. They rushed to pull on their raincoats. The first deckhand laughed at the other two as they put on life vests. The second put on his vest then joined the first deckhand in mocking the third, who was fastening a lifeline from the boat to his vest. Only the third remembered that the captain’s rules required that during a storm all deckhands needed a life vest and a lifeline attached to the boat when outside.

While securing the deck, a large wave washed over the boat and swept the three deckhands into the frothing sea.

Even the third deckhand, with the lifeline, couldn’t see the boat because of the wind spitting stinging drops of saltwater in his eyes. He only felt the lifeline towing him through the waves behind the boat. Hand over hand, he pulled himself back onto the boat and into the cabin. He collapsed and gave thanks for the captain’s rules.

The other two deckhands were lost in the sea.

(Written September 2017)

The Ember

The ember leapt into the glowing air, dancing in hypnotizing, quick spirals in the safety of his fire. The heat filled him with happiness and it thought “I will never leave this place.”

Then it felt a subtle nudge from the breeze interrupt his blissful dance. The gentle draft pushed it away from the safety of the fire. “How cold and lonely it is out here,” thought the ember as the wind left it floating in the open sky.

An old leaf floated downward in a contented side-to-side dance past the ember, having been plucked from a branch by the same breeze. “I once gave shade to those warm by the fire. Now I am to become the soil that strengthens the roots of my mother tree. The secret is to remember the good where you came from and see the blessing of where you’re going.”

The goodness of the dying leaf felt familiar and warm to the lonely ember and it wanted to hear more. But the leaf drifted into the flickering shadows on the barren ground and was silent.

The ember was bitterly sad at the wind for blowing the good leaf from it’s branch and for taking the ember from the fire.

“Why do you take away comfort and happiness?”, the ember called into the night breeze.

“What do you mean?”, asked the night breeze in return. “Do you regret meeting the old leaf?”

“No,” said the ember. “But you ought to have let him alone! And me too!”

“Hmmm,” contemplated the night breeze. “The leaf and I knew each other well and danced together in our youth.”

“But how could you have taken it from it’s home?”

“It was time for it to find a new home,” said the night breeze. “And you as well. Where are you going little ember?”

“Upward, into the empty sky,” said the anxious ember. “The sky is no place for an ember, so dark and cold.”

“No?”, asked the night breeze. “Do you see the child by your fire? She is looking at you. She watched you dance and twirl in the heat of the fire and when I pushed you out, her gaze followed you. Now she looks up at you and sees where you are going.”

The ember stared into the wide eyes of the child. They reflected the ember in the sky and it knew the child felt happy watching him dance.

“Now you look up, little ember,” said the night breeze.

As the ember slowly turned it saw the night sky opening beyond the old leaf’s tree. The sky was filled with so many tiny points of light it would never be able to count them all. It was not alone in the night sky.

The child’s gaze fixed skyward as the little ember darkened. He descended in a final contented side-to-side dance to the ground beside the old leaf.

“Hello, friend,” greeted the old leaf.

(Written April 2015)