family
Preparing for Winter
Preparing for Winter ~ By Lora-Lee Reed Day One: Winter was only a week away and this abandoned barn had much to be done in order to be ready. Being the eldest and feeling responsible, Bernette felt she had to make sure it was livable for everyone herself. She set out by making a list of what needed to be done.
By Lora-Lee Reed2 years ago in Fiction
CERBERUS leWalaad
WE HAD JUST FINISHED A ROUND of pool. The holiday was wearing down and the pups, second litter of FOCCE', were rampant with mischief. She'd been returned to minimize the havoc instigated by her, a street bitch with all the mannerisms to support the title. She was a ruddy red brown pit bull standing height at 23 inches, a lower case mastiff being babysat for the year her owner was out of town. Lucky for her our bull mastiff was coming of age and found her to be most aromatic in addition to ever inspiring with her fence chasing antics. She could never be mistaken for proper. FOCCE' ran the fence all day if left outside. Ran along the fence barking and pouncing at the neighbor dogs. The other side of a four foot fence presented two papered German Sheppards with low crouched pace and perked ears, one pitch black and the other standard brown with black patching. The odd lot in that yard was a small commander of the two larger dogs. He was what resembled a Griffon... mottled grey and black sized to fit a man's boot box if he'd ever be in need of a casket. The latter idea wrought by the attitude of unwilling yard mates in their disinterest at being commanded by something so small and bossy. The Griffon nipped at their heels, bit the length of their tails and yapped his own opinion as to three response to the noisy neighbor in our yard. FOCCE' loved the confusion it all brought about. In less than eight months she was sagging low in her belly with a soon to be household addition put by BLU the bull mastiff Cane Corso gifted to our household one year prior. BLU was more laid back than FOCCE'; laid back and appreciated for being so. FOCCE: was street wise and it showed. She seemed to show him the ropes of mating egging him on at every opportunity until she had him caught and until she was showing a swaggered belly as her cast inside grew. Within a few months we had puppies. Ten grey and white reproductions of BLU, his first litter. He would be the origin of our kennel. A start of the old world extension of the molossus, a now extinct mastiff-type dog. Ours, a Cane Corso breed with origins in Italy traceable to ancient Roman molossus. BLU was calm until agitated. The first litter grew and were dispersed among family and friends for the most. The second litter was started almost unbelievably within weeks, almost as if by insemination. It brought ten healthy pups with owners ready and waiting. The following year brought BONITA and BINTA both impregnated within weeks of the other whelping a total fourteen pups of which only seven survived. Bonita lost most of her litter which sprung forth in the early morning hours supervised by her unwilling caretaker for his mother. Bonita was a bossy 2nd litter female owned by a family member who rarely stepped into our home but left her son and her dog in house. Her son resented the task of caring for the pregnant pooch. When whelping began pups were strewn across the entire basement area including beneath two shelves of tools and hardware. By the time anyone else was notified of the birthing event most puppies were already out; the last causing a shock syndrome which developed from the stress of birthing and the trauma of walking, climbing on in and around variant furnishings of the tool bench and woodworking equipment. There was blood and tissue torn and spilled on saw blades, screwdrivers and boxes of nails and fixtures. The whelping bitch was not calmed enough to stay on the prepared pad in an old pool which would have controlled any pups strong enough to move around after being born. Instead, puppies were collected from among those rough elements on and underneath workbench item and shelves. The basement was scoured under bright overhead lights and flashlights to find a total count of seven pups born and one potentially trapped in the vulva with Bonita straining to breath through pushing it and the umbilical free from herself. She died trying to free that last issue, her caregiver arguing that he, "...did not want to watch the damn dog anyway!" His mother's dog died from the resentment and disinterest. The pups died one after another from exposure and then from lack of nourishment. There was no mother to suckle from. After the last death count and disposal by burial in the far back end of the yard space, the son left, staying out of the house for a week or more. Before he could return and within days of Bonita's episode, BINTA began her whelping stage lucky to be under a bit more watchful eye and care for her outcome. Her puppies survived. They survived despite her weakened disposition near the end of the birth of a sixth pup. She was given an herbal convulsant, herbs chosen and blended at home on partial advise from a veterans clinic. No offices open or scheduled to open due to holiday weekend. The herbs were readily available in our kitchen except for one ingredient accessed from a local Natural Foods Store... FOOD FANTASIES held there in ample supply. The convulsant was to help with pushing the afterbirth. When she seemed overly lethargic after a seventh pup and placenta rushed from her body, she was given herbal antibiotic tucked between her teeth and lip; and simulated IV in form of Pedialyte by eyedropper. Where she had been on the verge of death, the herbals and sterile waters revived her to where she could eat and drink on her own. She performed her own life actions including loving the pups. After weeks of reviving BINTA and supplementing milk for the puppies with MOTHERS MILK, a substitute for lactating dogs that can not provide enough milk for new pups. In six months there were dogs everywhere running the fence, climbing atop dog house and dog run and crawling out of dog pens. Dogs running across the top of a yard parked vehicle and springing from the teeter totter black wire trailer in the back yard. The year before found us lucky enough to have erected a six foot fence so that only the sounds emitted from the action in our yard could be reacted to by the three dogs next door. They were no longer of concern. No longer the fear for unexpected intrusion by walk over on that four foot divider. They could not attend what they could not see. In six months the third litter of pups were being fended out... but slowly. Their lengthened familiarization with the home front and their learned skill at climbing brought indoor fiascoes surely unknown to other dog owners. The pool table was one major curiosity due to human interaction thereon. We could be seen leaning over what looked like the food scrap table, the place where if conniving, patient and willy enough, any one of them could pick up a scrap of bacon, steak or roasted beef. They could find sliced apple with peanut butter... their favorite. The table was the place to go even if searching it "in person" had to be tasked. The dining table once... but the pool table often, was where what seemed to be a dog version of KING OF THE HILL played out. CERBERUS and BINTA Boy took turns manning the table with the first leap victor nudging away any second tier challenger. CERBERUS was the all time winner for his knack with the leap, a one try effort. It was as if he could simply step up and be on top like the tallest of hurdle jumpers in a field event at the Olympics.
By CarmenJimersonCross2 years ago in Fiction
The Waiting Room
I’ve heard that love makes people do strange things, but grief seems the worse drug. Rosie has a white-knuckled grip on her armrests and is staring at the ‘Have Hope!’ poster in front of her like she wants to set it on fire, muscles twitching in her jaw. Her knee bounces, heel tapping out an unforgiving rhythm against the cold floor. She has a small stain on her lips that she hasn’t noticed.
By heyitsfiye2 years ago in Fiction
Snow Day
Anna looked around her room, watching the shadows dance around her bedroom wall. She did not want to leave the blanket of warm that her comforter encased around her. The shadows looked like little spiders crawling down her wall, she thought to herself, as she contemplated getting herself up and out of bed. Yesterday had been long and tiring, getting loads of cleaning work done in the barn. There was news of the first snow storm of the season coming soon, and she wanted to be ready. The last thing she needed was to freeze a finger, or anything off, being unnecessarily out in the cold.
By Jessica Edinger2 years ago in Fiction
Ghost in the Woods
“I don’t understand,” said the man with a dangerous voice. “You said the search would only take a few days, sheriff. It has been TWO WEEKS!” The man’s wife jumped in her chair then struggled to suppress a high pitched sob. The officer, however, didn’t flinch. He simply took off his hat and sighed. “Sir, I can’t begin to imagine what you and your wife are feeling, but I assure you that we are trying our-.”
By Bowyn Broderick2 years ago in Fiction
Birdmen
Mush. Mush. Mush. My feet cut into the soft ground with each step. They leave behind footprints gasping with pools of muddy water like blood leaving a wound. As my feet glide swiftly above the ground they make a sifting noise as they brush along the grass. Green. A green that is both grayer and greener on a wet and gray day like this. Dad died yesterday, and the path seemed so different knowing that he will no longer walk this path. He had lived alone. His house stands sovereign in a clearing surrounded by lush forests and green hills. A very calm area, with wind and sound that flowed much like he does. Did. It's funny. Today I feel a lot like him somehow. What does it mean to feel like someone? You can never live in any body but your own. Any skin but your own. But I’ve always been able to feel like someone else. Sometimes I even think with the voices of other people. And sometimes I feel like I carry their faces, their being inside of my own. Maybe that’s why I feel like him. Every time we spoke I got the feeling that he had done the same. Felt the same. There’s his house all modest-like. Modest in an elegant and sovereign manner, like a roaming Franciscan under the solemn vow of poverty reciting a silent prayer. The house always looks as if it will be gone if I turn my back on it but a moment. Brown, with white windows. Surrounded by grass and shrubbery and wildflowers and weeds and dandelions and green and green and green. The sky is very gray today, overcast with clouds. It just got done raining today. Maybe it’ll rain some more. Green is greener on gray days. Or I don’t know, maybe—bluer? Especially when it's all wet like this. Sad but in a somber, almost happy kinda way. Almost. Which pocket did I put the key in? Pants pocket? No. Left Jacket pocket? No. Right? Found it. The key slips in easy, but the door’s always been a tight fit. Gotta push real hard. Shoes. All three pairs he'd owned, lined up by the entrance both messy and tidy all at once. Books lying everywhere from the entrance to his bedroom winding from one end to the other like a breadcrumb trail designed to entice an old bookworm. That old-man-rug in the entranceway and the bigger old-man-rug in the living room. Brown. Lot’s of hardwood. He does love that old fashioned look. Did. Burgundy. Lots of old books in a color not too dissimilar to dried blood, as if to signify that the writers are long dead. Green. He had loads and loads of plants all healthy and well taken care of. More brown. Bookshelves everywhere in the house, both messy and tidy all at once. In sum: disorderly order.
By Alfonso de la nada2 years ago in Fiction
Where do I put them?
The world rolled on hazily through the bus windows nauseating me till I was set alert by a barn owl flaunting its wings among the pine trees. The bus groans then whine to a stop at a traffic light, with a gluttonous stare I follow the trajectory of the owl, I clutch the edge of my seat my forehead pressed to the cold window, the raucous sounds of my breaths foaming the surface.
By seirna Folly2 years ago in Fiction
Birds of a Feather
Marnie always knew she would outlive her brother. An odd sentiment for any sister to have, let alone a twin. Yet, despite this deviation in familial solidarity, there had never been a time when she did not have the distinct notion of her brother living to a ripe old age in tandem with her.
By Brittany Whipple2 years ago in Fiction