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The Excuse
Aug. 25th, 2011 11:28 pmI can smell them. How can the boy not smell them? They are perched on the branches of the tree just outside his bedroom window, small as squirrels, but shaped more like a man, and their coverings make them blend in with the leaves and bark. That must be it. The boy uses his eyes more than he uses his nose. But eyes lie. A nose never lies.
Once I can smell them, I know where to look, and I see them plain as day. I hear them too, wittering amongst themselves in their squeaky voices. They are hostile, greedy, unpleasant. I know it just from the tone of their speech. A dog knows such things.
I put my paws up on the boy's desk and yell at the things. You! Yes, you! I see you! I know what you want! You're stalking the boy! You've been stalking him for weeks!
The boy puts his pencil down and scowls at me. "Jeez, Tripper," he groans. "Could you please, please quit barking?"
No, I can't! I growl at the things. They carry tools – barbed darts, and smaller things – tiny versions of the incomprehensible machines people use. They speak into them, or wave them around. I inform them: the boy is off limits, and so is his work!
Oh, it's the work they want. He's been sitting at his desk for many days, now, doing nothing but thinking and writing, working on something smart. I have been helping by lying on his feet. Whatever he's writing must be very, very important. I know this, because the boy is working on it, and the boy is very smart. How smart is he? Think of something really, really smart. Okay, he's as smart as that. Maybe smarter.
( Read more... )
Once I can smell them, I know where to look, and I see them plain as day. I hear them too, wittering amongst themselves in their squeaky voices. They are hostile, greedy, unpleasant. I know it just from the tone of their speech. A dog knows such things.
I put my paws up on the boy's desk and yell at the things. You! Yes, you! I see you! I know what you want! You're stalking the boy! You've been stalking him for weeks!
The boy puts his pencil down and scowls at me. "Jeez, Tripper," he groans. "Could you please, please quit barking?"
No, I can't! I growl at the things. They carry tools – barbed darts, and smaller things – tiny versions of the incomprehensible machines people use. They speak into them, or wave them around. I inform them: the boy is off limits, and so is his work!
Oh, it's the work they want. He's been sitting at his desk for many days, now, doing nothing but thinking and writing, working on something smart. I have been helping by lying on his feet. Whatever he's writing must be very, very important. I know this, because the boy is working on it, and the boy is very smart. How smart is he? Think of something really, really smart. Okay, he's as smart as that. Maybe smarter.
( Read more... )
