this dog food’s delicious (I’ll kill you)

Weird shit goes on in this house.

I’ve mentioned the grave (we assume and hope it’s for a dog) in our backyard. Electronics and lights turn themselves on. There are noises. Feet shuffling through the living room when no one’s there. The doorknob jiggling late at night (and, according to the peephole in the front door, by an invisible hand). The dogs don’t like to be in the kitchen and slink through the room when they want to travel to another part of the house (they do seem to get over their fear when cooking is happening, especially if chicken is involved). Something has died in the walls. Twice.

Things are just a little off. Light switch plates and outlet covers are slightly off level. We have an abnormal amount of spiders in the house. Twice a snake has snuck onto the interior back porch. Weird mushrooms grow after a good rain. I’m not trying to suggest there’s some supernatural explanation for any of these oddities, but I will say this is the strangest place I’ve ever lived.

For instance, this morning. James was already gone, so it was just me and the dogs. Stella was wrapped up in a blanket on her little dog bed under my desk, and Dali was in the living room having breakfast. Dali is very protective of her food–even though she’s never missed a meal and no one tries to eat her food. (I gave it up years ago.) She will often growl at Stella (and sometimes me or James if we get too close to her bowl). I was in the bathroom finishing my toilette when I heard Dali’s low growl. I poked my head into the living room, expecting to see Stella near Dali’s food. But Dali was alone. And looking into the kitchen.

In case we had a visitor (I would hope that Dali would provide more than a low growl if someone were in the house, but she’s kind of lazy), I put some clothes and my glasses on and went to check it out. No one was there. I went back to the bathroom. Dali started growling again, and again she was staring into the kitchen. I made a big production out of walking through that part of the house and letting her know that it was just us chickens, but she was unmoved.

If it wasn’t the boogeyman, perhaps she was bothered by this:

these eyes have seen things
these eyes have seen things

This is a reindeer that my parents made for my grandparents about 25 or 30 years ago. The eyes have yellowed, but otherwise this little guy is in great shape. When it gets closer to Christmas, I do what my grandparents used to do–tie it up on the front porch like a pet. But for now, it’s just a couple of feet from Dali’s bowl. Staring at her. Maybe that’s who she was growling at this morning, though she was looking the opposite direction. She’s not the smartest dog in the world.

Or maybe she can see things in the house that I can’t. Not that I go in for that hoodoo bullshit. Except, of course, for the time I accidentally took a picture of a scary fucking black blob inside St. Patrick’s Cathedral.

Let’s just say I’m open-minded to the possibilities. And so is Dali.

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One response to “this dog food’s delicious (I’ll kill you)”

  1. Chaucer? Really?

    As a one given to fanciful misunderstandings, I have many times experienced the supernatural. But almost always under the influence of some drug or in the throes of alcohol withdrawal. But what of that? Shamans all the world over use some concoction or another to find their way to the spirit world. And even if science can explain everthing, so can magic.

    Do ghosts exist? Of course. Maybe not in Hollywood style, but sure, they are all around us. We ourselves are ghosts to those we think of as inhabiting the spirit world. Besides, half the planet worships a ghost.

    It was some old Greek who began the thinking that all of this is an illusion and I my ownself made a comment on someone’s blog on day three of my scheduled five day drunk that all of this is but a dream some king is having.

    My ghosts visit me nightly. All of my childhood family have passed, except for my wild brother Bill who split for the forests of central kentucky two years ago. He learned the moonshine trade in high school and never since has he escaped it; my only regret on the matter is that none of his product makes its way to this sorry little trailer park.

    But Wild Bill is a ghost of the forest and for all anyone knows, Old Tim Joe is but a literary ghost in the machine, an experiment being conducted in some subteranean refuge beneath an office building in Palo Alto.

    It sure feels that way sometimes.

    Here am I. tj

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