Our trip to Palm Springs was, of course, great. My subsequent writing retreat, also great.
Now I’m home again, and happy to be here. However, I’ve been gone for several weeks, which is long enough to lull me into thinking I lead a normal life just like all the other kids. But then the evidence begins to pile up around me. Despite my occasional whinings in this blog, I’m really not into self-pity, but…
Melissa ordered something through the mail and she’d opened the box and left the item on the counter. The tag read “Care of your Wetscraper/flesher.”
Well, that’s not something you read every day. Turns out it’s a piece of metal sharpened along the long edge, used to scrape the bits of flesh off of a hide before one cures it.
Then I sit down on our living room couch for some quiet time, and the magazine on the top of the pile is open to an article about ram epididymitis —“primarily a genital disease of rams”– complete with a helpful photo of a ram’s swollen testicles.
Then I realize that whatever Melissa was cooking in the oven that evening was still cooking, and in fact, she’d been cooking whatever it was for a few hours. I should say at this point that we believe it’s good to use as much of an animal butchered as possible. Processing plants have figured this out, and sell every bit they can. We recently purchased at the pet store some ‘bully’ sticks for our puppy, the clever name disguising the fact that the stick is dried bull penis.
So when Melissa told me the item in the oven would be drying for the rest of the evening, my normally trusting nature turned into raving paranoia. “Please don’t tell me you’re drying out a ram penis in my oven.”
“Okay,” she said, and she walked away.
I closed my eyes, and allowed myself a flash of self-pity. One does not lead a normal life when there is a ram penis drying on a tray in one’s oven.
The puppy, however, is in for a tasty treat.