THE COW JUMPED OVER THE MOON
I finally had the opportunity to remove everything I owned in the world from the back of the truck, minus the cat and the fiddle. Rooster’s old house had been cleaned out of anything of value by vandals and past friends and the distant family that had abandoned him. I heard that the Harley had been hauled off in a trailer. The place was a nice little two bedroom cottage with an old country kitchen where windows wrapped the room. There was also a dog, a big dog, as big as a cow, a dog that could swat a fly with his tail. He was a cow that could leap a fence as high as the moon, a dog that liked to dig huge holes, a dumb dog. A dog Saint Januarius, the owner of the house, wasn’t particularly fond of, but Cleopatra of the Cotton Exchange loved that dog, though she claimed no ownership nor responsibility, a dog called “Argo.”
“I’ll give you a reference if you promise to keep the dog,” Cleo offered. “Saint will never know, she’s lives in Chicago.”
I didn’t have much choice in the matter. I thought maybe she was sentimental over the loss of her neighbor and wanted something around to remember him by. But Cleopatra was a brave new woman, a nouveau corporate moll in a dark blue suit with a scratchy Southern horn for a voice. It was an omen. It was a place to live.
“Sure,” I said.
My belongings didn’t make much of an impression in the house. That was acceptable to me. The clutter had been purged in the last two moves, from Maryland and then again from Florida. Things became easier to let go of after a while, with the simple realization of the transitory nature of things. I had my books, computer and fax machine, futon, a few trunks of video tapes, a roll topped desk, a secretary and a good pullout couch left over from the folks. With a few wall hangings and hooks for pots and pans and a couple of boxes of household items, I was able to elevate myself just slightly above trailer trash. I owned one chair and another was leftover from the Rooster’s things. Fish gave me a small cafe table for the kitchen and an old couch for the second bedroom, and suddenly I had a home a truck a bicycle and a dog.
Without Toots the cat I was willing to give Argo the dog a try, even though I knew that dogs need a lot of attention. It was like inheriting somebody’s teenage son. There was no real connection, yet I had to feed him and put up with his shit. Rooster had never spoken much in the month or so I had seen him around, so I couldn’t really call him friend. On the other hand, I identified with him somewhat, because of my own alienation. Argo had been Rooster’s dog. The big redheaded dog smiled constantly. He had that much in his favor. I certainly couldn’t anymore. I hadn’t been able to afford dental work for years, putting any money earned into artistic endeavors that turned out to be for art’s sake. Yep, I picked all the big money stuff: literacy, tai-chi and then blood. Maybe if the bleeding wasn’t internal and splashed around a bit more, the potential for gobs of money would have been more likely. So I let my teeth go a little bit. The last bonding job I had on the ivories had completely broken down. Between the discoloration and the filing down of the dentist, I had achieved the look of a bone-chomping old wolfhound with that days gone by methamphetamine smile. Oh well, Argo smiled all the time. He just wouldn’t stay in the yard, the great big yard with a fence around half an acre.