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Vision, Smision |
| Written by Jeanie Custer | |
| Monday, 11 February 2008 | |
VISION, SMISION I am an ordinary woman. I live in a three bedroom ranch in a neighborhood filled with houses exactly like mine, except the one next door has a porch on the left side, (mine is on the right). The Duprees across the street have no porch, only a front stoop with a little overhang to protect visitors waiting at the door, but there’s a very nice bay window fronted by spirea bushes in place of my common three panel picture window enhanced by junipers in need of trimming. My husband is a CPA at a large firm. He’s home every night at five-thirty for dinner with our two teenage daughters, Katie and Tracy, who think their father is boring and I am an idiot. Sometimes I agree with them. I walk two miles at least three times a week because I swear I am going to lose ten pounds before my twentieth high school reunion next summer. Actually, it’s more of a stroll, as brisk exercise does not appeal to me. I am hoping the fresh air alone will boost my metabolism. My hobbies are shopping and sewing, and ten hours a week working at the local supermarket provides a small financial boon to allow me to indulge both. I am actually a very good seamstress, although mediocre in the area of fitting. Last winter I spent a hundred dollars on four yards of silk and a month of toil to produce an exquisitely made jacket that would have perfectly fit someone with shorter arms, a smaller waist and less bosom than yours truly. A Salvation Army shopper somewhere is town is now dressed to the nines. Rinsing dishes from breakfast and loading the dishwasher, I glance out my kitchen window and am surprised to see a flood of yellow daisies stretching their sunny faces towards the sky. Why am I surprised? It is, after all, my own backyard. Why would I be surprised to see what was growing there? Because the last time I looked out that window there was only a muddy patch where now perky flowers bloomed. Now I know what Bill was doing last night as I lay on the couch and read my murder mystery. Do I feel guilty that I did not help? Maybe just a little. But that’s his hobby, I rationalize. And who washes his muddy clothes, I ask you? And who cleans up the mud in the kitchen after he comes inside? Moi, that’s who. So I have earned the right to enjoy the sight of daisies greeting me each morning as I clean up after my family. Later I may even venture outside to see what other wonders my gardening husband may have planted. If it’s too hot, though, I may just go to the mall. The idea of shopping catches on. A mental list is forming as I carry the trash outside and am accosted by the barking, nay, bleating, of the neighbor’s dog. Pookie is a mutt mix. Brown, black and white hair with the texture of a shag rug after too many washings covers this two-foot tall wonder. His muzzle is surprisingly smooth with clear brown eyes peeking out under a messy topknot. The dog has PERSONALITY. Bouncing up and down at the fence, he greets me with customary exuberance when I approach. After a quick scratch behind the ears, Pookie jumps down, runs in a circle a couple of times, then bounds back to the fence for more attention. Our ritual is interrupted by the mailman and Pookie runs across the yard yapping and snarling at the intrusion. I take the opportunity to sneak back to the house. My sojourn to the mall is very productive. A sale in the junior department yields two pair of jeans that I am certain my daughters will like, since there are more holes in them than in my old sneakers. Plus, they were fifty percent off, which means I can spend the savings on a new blouse for myself, thereby breaking even. After a cheeseburger combo meal, eaten while driving home, I decide it would be a good idea to walk off the extra calories before fixing dinner, so I don my holey sneakers and running shorts (improperly named, in my case) and an oversized t-shirt and head for the nature trail. There is a wooded area nearby that our realtor persisted in referring to as “The Glade”. No one who actually lives in our neighborhood calls it that. To us, it’s just “the woods”, not even capitalized. It’s about two blocks long, a block wide and has a trail running through that kids mostly use for bike riding, so later in the summer it gets pretty rutted and hard to walk. Mid-June is my favorite time to walk there. This afternoon the temperature is hovering around seventy-five degrees. The sun is bright, but here in the woods light filters through in patches of sunlight and shadow. There is no breeze and the dense foliage around me buffers the noise of other walkers. Birds are chirping above. There are occasional rustling noises coming from the underbrush which I attribute to rabbits or squirrels. I have an eerie sense of being alone in the wilderness. This is a disconcerting thought for a city girl. I am really not comfortable away from creature comforts and 911 access. I hear more rustling sounds, louder now, ahead of me and I stop, braced on the balls of my feet, ready to turn and run. A loud whoosh as something breaks through the brush and suddenly Pookie appears in front of me, tail straight up, ears perked forward and a big grin on his face. Dogs do grin, but maybe this is more of a grimace.. His continence is intense, as he stares at me, hardly moving a muscle. “Hi, Pookie,” I say when I get over the urge to pee my pants, he has surprised me so. His head tilts to one side and an ear twitches. His eyes close part way and he barks, one sharp report. Pookie is doing a great Kujo imitation and I am getting seriously spooked. My little over-the-fence head-scratching buddy looks like he wants to take me down. I think I can see a red glow in his eyes. Oh, no, devil dog. He steps forward, I retreat. I’m about to turn and run when his stance relaxes and his tongue is hanging out, all friendly-like. Relieved that he no longer wants to eat me, I put my hand out and start walking forward. Again, he stiffens.. Fear squeezes my bladder as I see his lips curl back and hear a deep rumbling growl. Drool is dripping from his mouth and I can almost feel those bared fangs sinking into my leg. Backing away slowly, eyes averted, like a submissive animal, I gradually put more distance between myself and evil-Pookie. A few more feet to a fork in the trail leading out of the woods, and across a field to safety. I turn and do something totally at odds with my fitness program so far. I run. Halfway across the field, sweating, choking for breath, pains in my chest, I drop to the ground on my hands and knees, looking back to see if evil-Pookie has followed. No sign of the dog, but a figure is posed at the tree line. He steps back, almost blending into the brush, but I can still make out his silhouette. There is a moment of stillness when I imagine the man is looking right at me, then he turns away, disappearing into the shadows. That evening, after the chaotic and messy dinner that was the norm at our house, I am soaking in the tub, easing the scrapes and scratches acquired in my afternoon brush with danger. In the safe confines of my own home, I have trouble reconciling those events with reality. I have never seen Pookie behave in that manner before. For that matter, I have never seen him out roaming around on his own. Am I sure it was Pookie? Or some kind of vision? I feel silly even thinking about it. Whatever it was didn’t want me to go further down the trail. The figure I saw in the woods after I collapsed from exhaustion flits through my mind, but I quickly push it away. Too scary. I won’t be telling my family about my adventure. I know their reaction: Woo-Woo. Mom’s a dog whisperer. I’d never live it down. This kind of experience is best kept to myself. I can make what I want of it that way. Take it as seriously as I wish. Meanwhile, I think I’ll take another look at that women’s workout center at the mall. Fresh air is overrated. Copyright 2008 Jeanie Custer |
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