Short Stories: Long Way Around the Short End. James Hill
“Good luck with that. Let me know how it goes.”
Not long after hanging up with him, my phone rings in.
“Lester, this is Ralph.”
“What’s up, boss?”
“I need you to drive to Georgia day after tomorrow. We have a dealer there who wants a presentation on our new grain threshing machine, the T-24.”
“I can do it.”
“Do you have a brochure on it?”
“Yes. I picked one up the last time I was in the office.”
“Good. Guy says there could be two other parties interested. Could be a three-day trip. I will e-mail you all the other information you need.”
“Will do, Ralph.”
“Oh, one other thing. You know the Farm Equipment and Trade Show is in Kansas City this year.”
“I remember.”
“Well, since the home office is located there too, the powers that be have decided to hold a sales seminar afterward. Tell Edith we will be gone closer to two weeks than one.”
“She will be glad to have me out of her hair for that long.”
He laughs. “So will my wife.”
* * * * *
Since my timeline has been amped up, I need to speed the process up also. It’s time to bear all arms and bring both plans of action together at one time. That should create one three-ring circus.
Boy! Was I right…or wrong about that? Depends on how you look at it.
The first thing I do is take a bag of pellets and spread half around the backyard. Then, I remove a can of Alpo and one of the bowls from the garage and take them to the house for the can opener. I slip up and leave the empty can in the kitchen trash.
I take the bowl outside and place it at the entrance to the trail from Herb’s house. I already see three rabbits munching on the pellets.
Ol’ Herb might just know what he’s talking about.
On my return trip to retrieve the opener for the other five cans, I find Edith wiping fur from the counter, getting ready to prepare supper, a cigarette with inch-long ash dangling from her lips. The can is sitting at the edge of the counter.
“What is that?” she asks as the ash falls.
“The label says Alpo.”
“I know what it says. Where did you get it?”
“Herb gave it to me,” I lie.
“Herb doesn’t have a dog.”
“I didn’t ask him how he came about it. He just gave it to me.”
“Well, we don’t feed our babies this stuff. They need good by-products.”
I know. They can’t eat the dry bulk sold at Farmer’s Dollar. They are spoiled on the moist stuff with expensive names like Fancy Feast and Kitty Cuisine.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” I hide the opener in my pocket, get a plastic grocery bag, put the can in it, and start outside.
“I’ve noticed you’ve been spending a lot of time outside, lately.”
“I’ve found my pipe tastes better in the fresh air.”
“It sure makes the air better in here.”
How can you tell with the cat-piss ammonia cloud hanging overhead?
“And since I’m on the road so much, I’ve found enjoyment in the peacefulness of nature.”
I better stop while I’m ahead.
“I’ll call you when supper’s ready,” she cuts me off.
I make my way outside and fill the five remaining bowls with Alpo. Putting the cans inside the bag with the other empty, I notice one more rabbit has joined the pellet-eating party, and some of the cats have taken notice as well. I set the cans under the porch and carry one bowl down to the gold mine path. The other four are placed in strategic positions along the perimeter.
In the distance, I hear an owl hoot and a coyote howl. Yeah. This show ought to get good tonight. I take a seat and have a smoke before dinner.
* * * * *
After supper is over, my wife goes back for her bath, and I step outside to see if anything is happening yet.
Nothing so far, but things are looking good—the stage is being set.
The sun is low in the sky. A possum is eating from the bowl at Herb’s trail. Another rabbit is in the yard, and an owl has perched on the big oak by my shed surveying the scene.
Most of the cats are watching from under the porch or the edge of the woods, so I move a cat bowl closer to the dog bowl the possum is eating out of. That should hasten the process.
Before I can take my seat, I hear what I take to be a wing flap. I look to see the owl leave the tree and swoop down and snatch a rabbit away from a cat that was stalking it. It flies up into a tall pine tree overlooking the two bowls I’ve placed together and begins to have dinner itself.
The owl had its choice of either one, cat or rabbit, and it chose rabbit. This leads me to believe that rabbit must be the better meat, which could shoot Herb’s theory all to hell.
I go inside to relieve myself and to get my pipe and bag of tobacco. I think I deserve a drink too. And since I don’t have any beer in the refrigerator, I take a bottle of Edith’s fine white wine. And since she’s going to be pissed anyway, I grab one of her nice wine glasses.
On my return to the porch, it’s dusk now, and I see a damn cat eating from one of the Alpo bowls, and a raccoon has set a place at the cat’s bowl beside the possum. And the owl, full from its rabbit dinner, has decided to roost early in the pine.
I pour some wine, light my pipe, and start to think, This isn’t looking good at all. Herb’s theories are blowing up all around me, and Edith’s theory on good by-products has been debunked.
The streetlight over my shed has come on, and the moon has come up as darkness settles in. The area is illuminated well. I call the light my meth-head lamp. We have had a rash of break-ins in the community lately. The items most desired are tools, lawnmowers, and fishing equipment—things for fast cash and quick dope. So far, the light outside (and maybe me inside with my rifle) has kept the dopers away. Out here, good lighting is a plus.
Edith’s cat patrol of a hundred or so could have something to do with it too.
A coyote skulks from the woods and goes to the bowl where the cat is eating. The startled cat runs right through the coyote’s legs, and the canine gives the feline free pass, gulping down the Alpo instead.
Yep. All of Herb’s theories are falling by the wayside, and his grand scheme is topsy-turvy. But still, I think it will be fascinating to see how it all plays out.
I pour myself another glass of wine and repack my pipe.
The coyote looks my way, wags his tail, and whines pitifully, begging for more Alpo. I’m not about to get up. “Move to another bowl,” I yell.
That settles it. Cat meat must not be very tasty. The only reason cats are killed by other animals is because they’re not very well-liked.
I’m turning up my glass when the scream echoes. If you’ve never heard the scream of a bobcat before, it’s especially terrifying when you’re not expecting it. It is sudden and causes a chain reaction: I drop the glass of wine, it bounces once on the porch, and the stem breaks off. The owl poops from the tree, and it falls into the bowl the raccoon is eating from. The raccoon, thinking the possum has flung it at him, runs over and slaps the possum while it’s eating. They commence to fighting.