Cat Related Quotes - Part IV ~ Pawprints and Purrs, Inc.

Cat Related Quotes - Part IV ~ Pawprints and Purrs, Inc.: "It is no easy task to win the friendship of a cat. He is a philosopher, sedate, tranquil, a creature of habit, a lover of decency and order. He does not bestow his regard lightly, and, though he may consent to be your companion, he will never be your slave. - Theophile Gautier"

The Rescuer's Creed

I promise I will take your unwanted animals. I will heal their wounds, their diseases, their broken bones. I will give them the medical attention they need and deserve. I will nurture their starvation and give them a warm place to sleep. I will spay and neuter them, vaccinate them against the diseases that can harm them. I will treat them and honor them. I will buy them toys, blankets, balls, and teach them to play. I will speak softly to them. I will try to teach them not to fear, not to cry, and not to hate. I will whisper sweet, kind, gentle words into their ears, while gently trying to stroke their fear, their pain, and their scars away. I will face their emotional scars and give them time to overcome them. I will socialize them, potty train them, teach them to be obedient, show them dignity, and hold their paws, and stroke their ears if they have endured too much and walk them over the Rainbow Bridge, BUT most of all I will teach them LOVE. Author Unknown

Love is in the Air

As I pressed the “Save” button a sense of doom washed over me.

“How the hell do I cancel this?” I muttered and mercilessly banged on the keyboard.

Too late, my information had disappeared into that vacuum known as cyberspace, that mysterious nothingness, which greedily sucks up all the information it can accumulate and stores it in some ethereal filing system. And now I was out there, floating somewhere in that black space. “I don’t think I’m ready for this.” I thought.

That was a few years ago. Now I’m a seasoned “internetter and I’ve met some really nice people through “match.com”, one of the more worthwhile singles site - people like me, who don’t want to hang out at bars or other popular watering holes hoping to meet that special someone.

I’ve tried the bar scene a few times and only once did I meet a man whose interests matched mine, who had the same philosophical approach to life, and whose grasp of English was a bit more than “Yo, babe, wanna go back to my place?” Almost everything about him was great ….you feel a “but” coming on, don’t you? And you’re right… he wasn’t quite the hunchback of Notre Dame, but he was a close second! Okay, so call me shallow, but I like a man to be a good looker as well as having it all.

“Can’t be done,” said one of my less optimistic friends, “where are you going to find a man who’s charming, kind, gentle, romantic, philosophical, witty and gorgeous?”

“You can’t still believe in all that romantic crap,” said yet another of my friends, “life isn’t that simple.”

Sure, life isn’t that simple. I’ve had to wade through some pretty murky waters, sorting out the good from the bad, bypassing the potentially dangerous, kissing a couple of frogs, and generally learning from my mistakes.

Take Jimmy, for instance - we met online, chatted for a few days on the phone and then he suggested we meet. All I knew about him up till then was that he was Greek, had a lot of investments and worked on his own portfolio for a living. He had a good voice, a nice sense of humor and lived in a good neighborhood. We met for lunch in a Mall nearby where I lived and when I saw him I thought, “Nice! Good looking, thick black hair, tanned, well dressed.” I straightened my shoulders, shook my hair beguilingly, and strode up to this Adonis. I too had dressed up for this date, black jeans, a gray cashmere top and my favorite Bruno Magli loafers.

“Jimmy, I presume?”

He unfolded his lean frame and stood up. 6’. 1” and all of those 72 inches were very, very nice.

“That’s me,” he said and wrapped a warm hand around mine. “It’s so good to meet you. Can I get you a drink?” He looked steadily into my eyes and I felt my toes curl.

“Wine would be great,” I whispered huskily. “Yummy,” was the only word that popped into my head.

“So, what’s wrong with Jimmy?” I hear you ask. Nothing, so far.

We sat at a secluded table at the rear of the restaurant, and being a typical Greek, Jimmy took over the ordering. I found this quite refreshing for a change, and I let him order what he wanted. Then we settled down to some serious conversation.

The waiter arrived, straining under a large silver platter heaped with seafood. A seductive smell of roasted garlic drifted from the steaming dish. Suddenly I was starving and I happily smiled at my date.

“I hope you like seafood,” Jimmy said, as he picked up a plump red lobster claw and expertly cracked it open. “For you,” he said and handed me the succulent white flesh. His fingers accidentally caressed my hand.

“This is delicious,” I said, and felt my heart skid. I think that the endless supply of wine helped a lot in making me feel extremely receptive to Jimmy. When the table had finally been cleared of the lucculan meal, Jimmy spoke quietly to the waiter who nodded and whisked away the remnants of our feast, returning a moment later with a bottle of vintage Moet and Chandon champagne and two crystal flutes.

“To meeting you,” Jimmy smiled across the table at me.

“Yes, to our meeting,” I toasted him back, and we clinked glasses.

“So?” I hear you mutter impatiently. “What’s wrong with this man?”

Here it is… the unacceptable imperfection…. Perhaps it had been there all along and I hadn’t seen it. Maybe I’d been distracted by his physical beauty and his impeccable manners. Or perhaps it hadn’t happened before now.

As he spoke and sipped his champagne, a build-up of white foam steadily collected at the corners of his mouth. The more he spoke, the thicker the build-up. Just then, thankfully, he picked up his napkin and wiped his mouth.

I sighed, relieved that this may have been a temporary imperfection, but a moment later the foam was back, and my eyes were riveted on the white dribble of viscous spittle nestling at the corners of his mouth. He wiped his mouth again and I went to find the bathroom, feeling quite nauseous by this time. I stood staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, the muted sounds from the restaurant making everything seem surreal. For an insane moment I toyed with the idea of climbing out the bathroom window and escaping.

“Not possible,” the angel on my shoulder admonished. “Think of something else.”

“Screw that”, countered the devil perched on my other shoulder, “just walk out, girl, and let him stew in his own juices.” I dabbed some lipstick and reluctantly left the safety of the bathroom, the angel having won the battle. Besides, my jeans were too tight to allow me to climb out through the narrow window!

“While you were in the bathroom,” Jimmy said when I sat down, “I called some of my friends and booked a table for dinner at The Clay Oven.”

“For when?” I asked. His saliva had dried slightly and now resembled streaks of cracked white chalk. I felt the lobster make its way back up my throat.

“For tonight,” he replied.

“No, sorry, no,” I said, “I’m busy tonight.”

“No, you’re not,” he smiled teasingly and the chalky cracks widened, “When we spoke about us meeting today, you said you were free either for lunch or dinner. Don’t worry,” he reassured me, mistakenly thinking that the flush on my cheeks was caused by some covert shyness, “you’ll like my friends. And they’re dying to meet you. I’ve told them all about you. And the restaurant is preparing a special Greek meal for us.”

“How long was I in the bathroom??” I wondered.

“Sounds good,” I said with a grim smile, “I’ll go home and change and meet you there.”

“Oh, don’t worry about changing,” he said, “You look perfectly fine. We’ll just leave from here.”

“No,” I replied firmly, “I’m going home to change and feed my animals.” I must’ve suffered a moment of temporary insanity just then, because I added, “Pick me up at seven.”

“Of course,” he said seriously, “I’m a gentleman. I wouldn’t let you drive around on your own at night.”

“Now I’ve really done it,” I thought. It didn’t bother me that he might turn out to be a rapist, or even a murderer. Nope, just that thick layer of foam lurking at the corners of his mouth.

“Wonderful,” he replied and leaned over to kiss my cheek. I hastily ducked down under the table, looking around desperately for something to pick up. “Where’s that damned messy floor when you need it??” I came up empty handed and scrambled to my feet.

“Gotta go,” I said, and moved away from him. “See you later. By the way,” I continued, “thanks so much for lunch. It was fun.” Damn that good angel!

But I had no intention of having dinner with him. As soon as I got to my car I’d leave a message on his mobile and beg off. So what, if he knew my address? I had electric fences around the whole area, electric gates, and two dogs. He couldn’t get in if he tried.

Feeling like a death row inmate who’d received a last-minute reprieve; I jumped into my car and locked the doors. “Too bad,” I muttered, “he’s a nice man, good looking, rich, charming, well mannered…. pity he’s a ‘froth mouth’. This could turn into a Seinfeld episode!” I thought and laughed ruefully. “Just my luck! I meet a man who is all that I desire, and he has to go and spoil it all!”

A moment or two later I realized I couldn’t cancel the dinner arrangement. Jimmy had been perfectly civil, charming, and understandably enamored of me. Who was I to make him look like an idiot in front of his friends? I’d worry about the saliva if, and when, the unthinkable happened.

Jimmy arrived promptly at seven to pick me up. “I want to go home for a quick minute,” he said some time later as we were driving along a dark road. He parked in front of a garage resplendent with four huge carved wooden doors.

“Come on in,” he said, “my son should be here. I’d like you to meet him.”

“This guy’s crazy,” I thought as I stepped from the car and followed him down a perfectly manicured driveway. The house was ultra modern, with wooden French windows and doors; each upstairs room had a sliding door leading onto its own small wrought-iron balcony. Exotic plants and palm trees were artfully scattered around the exterior of the house and in the background I heard the tinkling of water falling from an unseen fountain.

Jimmy opened the front door and I stepped into sheer luxury. The floors of the huge entrance hall were laid with pale pink marble, Persian rugs scattered all around. To the left was a wooden staircase swooping upwards. A huge chandelier hung majestically from the high ceiling, its crystal prisms reflecting the rich pinks and yellows of the room. An array of objets d’art was tastefully arranged around the room, giving me the eerie sensation that I was visiting a European museum.

“Do you like it?” he asked hesitantly, as he ushered me across the room and slid open the French doors leading into a private garden.

“It’s nice,” I replied, noncommittally. I wanted nothing in my demeanor to give this man any ideas.

“Excuse me for a moment, won’t you?” he said, “I need to change.”

“Sure,” I replied, and settled down in an easy chair.

“Come on, girl,” I berated myself, “you could be living in all this luxury. What’s a little froth, huh?” I shuddered. “Why am I even thinking this?” I thought, “I’m not looking for wealth, I’m looking for happiness and love. And Jimmy certainly isn’t the man I want.” I went to inspect one of the bookcases that lined an entire wall of the spacious room. Each leather-bound book was exquisitely tooled and the exact same size as the next one; none of them seemed to have ever been opened. There was a cluster of photographs on a shelf and as I peered down I saw a much younger Jimmy proudly standing next to an exotically beautiful woman who was holding a little boy’s hand.

Jimmy came back, smelling of some expensive aftershave, and I noticed that the dark five o’clock shadow of his beard was gone. “Let’s go, shall we?” he said, and led me back out to the car. “My son Dimitri is out. But you’ll get a chance to meet him in the next day or two.”

I remained silent, although my red devil clawed at my shoulder, urging me to shout out “over my dead body!” but I managed to restrain myself.

At the restaurant we were greeted by a plump, dark skinned woman who kissed Jimmy noisily on the lips and then led us to a long wooden table, ignoring me completely. “Special for you, Jimmy,” she smiled ingratiatingly at him, and I noticed a thin line of dark hairs on her upper lip. A moment later, Jimmy’s friends arrived. The women glittered with diamonds and bad taste and the men happily slapped Jimmy on the back.

The table groaned with the weight of the food that was tirelessly paraded in front of us to sample. This was all washed down with endless beers and wine and small glasses of Ouzo. The entertainment was made up of a mandolin player, a bouzouki player who seemed at death’s door with a cigarette hanging from his shrunken lips, and a drummer; they belted out a continuous stream of Greek music which the patrons seemed unable to resist as they scrambled to their feet and danced the dances of their ancestors. Jimmy, too, was unable to resist the urge to gyrate and I reluctantly followed him onto the dance floor. Two dances later and Jimmy was soaked. His shirt stuck to his chest and his hair hung around his head in greasy strands. A pungent smell of sweat encased his contorting body and I wanted to gag. “No one else is sweating like this,” I thought resentfully as I looked around at the progeny of Athena, who were breaking plates and shouting raucously as a young woman danced nimbly between the sharp shards of broken china.

At last the long evening began to wind down and I worried again about the trip home and “the kiss”. How was I going to sidestep that? And another thing – by now Jimmy was quite drunk, and I sure didn’t want to drive home with him.

And then a small miracle happened! One of the couples at the table saw the state that Jimmy was in, and suggested they drive me home, as they lived nearby. I was saved!

Eventually we all wandered outside to the parking lot and I ducked into the car just as Jimmy bent down to kiss me goodnight. “Thanks for a wonderful evening, Jimmy,” I said and slammed the door shut.

I never took any of Jimmy’s calls after that evening and eventually he gave up calling. Thus ended the Greek tragedy.

'Tis the Season ... for Pet Safety! 5 Ways to Avoid Common Holiday Hazards | Pets in the News | News | PEOPLE Pets

'Tis the Season ... for Pet Safety! 5 Ways to Avoid Common Holiday Hazards Pets in the News News PEOPLE Pets

I've had a lot of people ask me recently to start a blog for empowering women. So, I'm throwing the thought out here and want your comments.

This will be a blog where we could empower each other with words of wisdom, and words of encouragement, and with a roadmap to change what we don't like about ourselves, and advice on how to accept what we can't change.

Where we could post our achievements and our failures, our photographs and our thoughts and know that we will encourage each other on our journeys through life.

If you want to be a part of this movement to empower women then let's work together and create a blog that will inspire and spur us to greater heights and give us that empowerment that is rightfully ours!

Imagine what we could do for ourselves, and our world.

I think there is a great potential if all of us join together and create something that is powerful and life changing.

Put your creativity to work right now and come up with a great name for this blog.

Man on Wire - what a great movie

The title of the movie is taken from the police report that led to the arrest (and later release) of Phillipe Petit, a Frenchman whose passion was tightrope walking. The movie documents his obsession with walking on a rope across the Twin Towers in New York in 1974.

I've never seen anyone with such exquisite balance, every part of his body perfectly balanced and poised, his mind completely possessed with the idea of accomplishing this astonishing feat.

There is some rare footage of the construction of the Twin Towers and the movie has an added element of bitter sweetness and sadness as you see this young man prepare for, and execute his daring feat, because those Towers are now gone from us forever. This film served as a sharp reminder to me that we have to conquer evil before it conquers us.

Great movie, really worthwhile renting it.

Unnecessary Noises

The snap of bones breaking the first time, and again, and again.

The sucking sounds of a toilet as newborn kittens are flushed down.

The cries of young girls packed tight like sardines in a van, destination unknown.

The dull thuds of a boot against the delicate ribs of someone's pet.

The clink of spare change dropping into the can of a paralyzed Vet.

The shallow breathing of a pervert watching kiddie porn in the comfort of his darkened room.

The reluctant click click of a hooker's high heels as she works to feed her kids.

The blast of a bullet as it leaves a gun and pierces a cop's heart.

These are noises I can do without.

love my cats!

The Village of Rillage

A is for Adele who lived on the farm and fell down the well.

B is for Bruno who moved from Juno.

C is for Charlemagne the bulldog who bit Adele and died of mange.

D is for Doris the model who moved from Paris.

E is for Ester poor woman her husband was a molester.

F is for Frank married to Adele pushed her down the well then collected from the bank.

G is for Geraldo the commie who became a pinko.

H is for Hamlet who hated pinkos and shot Geraldo with a silver bullet.

I is for Isaac who got suddenly sick.

J for for Jacob who killed Isaac just because he could.

K is for Kat who lived in the field and slept on a mat.

L is for Larry married to Harriet, but wished she was a Harry.

M is for Marilyn who tried to save Bruno from a life of sin.

N is for Nestor the molester married to Ester.

O is for Orson who was booked for arson.

P is for Peter married to Kat but in love with Rita.

Q is for Quenton who smelled good because he has scent on.

R is for Rusty who worked the land and was always dusty.

S is for Stephen the priest who prayed for heaven.

T is for Theresa just plain old Theresa.

U is for Urquhart the plumber whose first love was art.

V is for Vicki who loved Rusty who gave her a hickey.

W is for Waldo who loved Marilyn who loved Bruno.

X is for Xavier who loved caviar.

Y is for Yentl who looked rough but was really gentle.

Z is for Zinnia who drove an old Zephyr and worked at the Zoo.

This is the village of Rillage and all its people.

America through my eyes - happy 4th of July

I feel very blessed to live in the USA.

Sedona is one of the most beautiful places in the world, and we are lucky to live here. For this, I am grateful.

There is gentle beauty all around us, and for this I am grateful.

The power of the Harley!

The sun sets, no matter what our problems are, and for this I am grateful.

The sun then rises on a new day, and for this I am grateful.

Old America mixes harmoniously with the new America, and for this I am grateful.

The Getty Center in Los Angeles

An old building in Silverton, Colorado.... so much to be grateful for.

Plastic

The large print giveth, and the small print taketh away.

Legalingo is a treacherous language, very difficult to navigate.

Lawyers are born - it's a calling, and when they grow up they learn how to convolute language into tortured strings of words, like sausages folding into themselves - letters and phrases, commas and hyphens, postulations and hypotheses, all blending together, grinded and seasoned and stuffed into an enticing manila casing.

These are actors who deliver line upon legal line, documenting them for posterity on reams of legal paper, perused and processed by paralegals and senior partners until ready for presentation to the client. The client, poor schmuck, looks perplexedly at the docs as his eyes tear up in an effort to focus and understand the mass of printed black ink in front of him.

The lawyer smiles benevolently, leans over and hands him a Mont Blanc pen. The deal is sealed. Now for the explanation of the fine print….

Thank God for Obama who is going to clear the legal morass and remove all the deadwood of double talk and simplify the process. Hopefully, now we'll know beforehand that we're giving up our first born to have the privilege of buying that new car on credit just so we can keep up with the Jones's next door.

After all, it's not really money, it's only plastic.

Senses of Life

eyes to appreciate beauty and ugliness.

ears to hear the mournful cooing of a dove,

the happy laughter of a child, and the cries of the bereft mother.

a nose to inhale the earthiness of freshly mown grass,

the tanginess of ocean spray, and the mustiness of death.

a body that is often strong, but more often weak,

muscles that ache then revive themselves - a daily miracle.

a mind to fill with thoughts and desires, yearnings and challenges.

ignorance and cruelty leave me gasping.

living life leaves me breathless.

The Deadliest Sin of All

The Deadliest Sin of all ......

Everything in life depends on whether we do or we don't.

Doing requires effort and conscious thought, while not doing requires conscious thought only.

No energy is expended when doing nothing.

If there is no energy nothing will change.

Without change, there is nothing.

The Death of Adolf

Adolf was 39 years old when he was found dead, in my car, with multiple gun shot wounds to his head and chest; he had been shot execution-style.   I don’t know what he was doing and I don’t know why he was dressed in army fatigues.   Who chased him in the dead of night, cornered him and shot away his life?  I still don't know.

 

....................

February 1987

 

A few days before this, we had spent a weekend in Dullstroom, a delightful small town, one of the great trout-fishing destinations of South Africa at the time.    It was raining that day and cold fingers of mist hovered sluggishly around the stone and wooden log homes, lending the town an air of the Scottish Highlands.   Pine trees grew everywhere, fenced in by barbed wire and large signs warning people to stay off the privately-owned land.  Empty gaps appeared in places in the forests, evidencing the constant tree cuttings necessary to satisfy the ever-hungry maws of the nearby paper mills that were polluting the atmosphere with grey smoke and foul odors.  

 

From the damp grounds of these forest floors sprout a range of mushrooms, and it was to pick these delectable fungi that we were there.  Armed with Swiss Army knives we swept away the needles and sliced the mushrooms clean off at their tender bases.    As the morning wore on, the forest became a sizzling sauna; steam forced its way through the dank pine needle carpet and spread out into the already oppressive air.     When we had collected all the mushrooms we needed we built a fire and fried mounds of chopped porcini mushrooms in lard and garlic.   Fresh rye bread scraped with a clove of garlic and then fried in the lard completed our feast.

 

As Adolf had to go to a meeting on Monday, we'd come up to the forest in two cars. 

Monday morning came all too quickly, and it was time for Adolf to drive to Swaziland for his meeting, and for me to take the dogs and the mushrooms and head home.

 

“See you later, mon cheri,” he yelled, the car’s pistons singing joyfully as he accelerated and hurtled out of sight.    He was driving my brand new, cute little metallic grey VW and I was in the Mercedes.  

 

 

I drove home in a warm glow of happiness.  It was raining and the windscreen wipers swooshed hypnotically back and forth on high speed, making visibility possible only every few seconds. 

 

“Life is good,” I thought, as I drove past fields of corn and sunflowers, through small towns and villages and arrived home a few hours later. 

 

 “Boss Adolf called and told me to cook dinner for you, Ma’m,” our maid Miriam said as I walked into the house.    Most middle to upper class families in South Africa boasted a maid and a gardener at that time, and we were no exception.    There were two sides to life in South Africa before Nelson Mandela, and it all depended on your skin color which side of life you were on.

 

Adolf didn't call that night, and that worried me.  The following morning, Miriam and I cleaned and sliced all the mushrooms and laid them out to dry in the sun on sheets of newspaper.  The phone rang and I ran to the study to answer it.  "Hello," I said, relieved that Adolf was finally calling.  The handset hissed and crackled in my ear and finally I heard a voice.

 

"Do you know the man who was shot to death last night, in a car registered under your name?"  Hiss. Crackle. Hiss.

 

The handset fell from my numb fingers.  I felt a primitive scream form in the pit of my stomach as I fumbled for the cigarettes that Adolf kept in the top drawer of the desk.  I ripped the packet apart, and yanked out a crumpled cigarette.  I had not smoked in eight years.  As I put the Camel to my mouth, the scream finally reached my throat.  I will never, ever, forget the sound that came out of me.   Miriam ran into the study, and without knowing why I was howling like a dying rabbit that'd been attacked by a coyote, she began to ululate in grief.   Just as I knew, she, too, knew that Adolf was involved in some kind of criminal activity, and that he was now dead.   She found my brother's telephone number and called him.

SOMEONE ALWAYS HATES SOMEONE

I met a Jehovah's Witness the other day.  She didn't try to hand me tracts of religious literature. And she didn't try to lure me in to a lengthy conversation about religion.  Instead, we had a marvelous time chatting and laughing - religion was never mentioned. 

A few days later I met a Muslim family, mom, dad, and two beautiful children, Fatimah and Abdul.   Fatima told me her granny had been called by Allah to come and stay with Him in heaven.  She cried, we all cried.  It was all good.  They are nice people and reminded me of my beautiful niece who has converted to the Muslim faith.  She is a gentle woman, with strong morals and beliefs and is bringing up her two boys to be like her.   I admire her and her fortitude and I know she's found the right path for her journey.

 Whatever religion we practice, we are all moving toward the same destination, the same Higher Force - Him/Her/It call it whatever you want, it's still the same destination and we'll all arrive there one day.  And then we'll have to account for our actions and our cruelty to each other. 

 Somehow I knew that I could find the words I wanted to express myself about this fact of life.  I found them through someone else's words, and that's fine.  Now I' sharing them with you.

 Take a minute to ponder about man's inhumanity to man…..  and to all living creatures.

                              --------------------------------------

 SOMEONE ALWAYS HATES SOMEONE

 Written by Mike Rutherford and Christopher Neil

Sung by Mike and the Mechanics

 Last night I shook hands with the devil

In a dream that I can never lose

He laughed when he saw me cryin'

At the pictures on the evening news

He said it's not really a dilemma

You're just a little out of touch

Don't think of the situation

Cos it'll make you think too much

 

Someone always hates someone

Someone always hates someone

Someone always sells a gun

Cos someone always hates someone

 

A child will be born tomorrow

As open as an empty cup

And we'll fill it with hope and sorrow

The very things that messed us up

We'll ask him to join the congregation

A Hindu,  Muslim, Christian, or Jew

Pretty soon he'll recognize his brothers

But soon he'll know the enemy too

 

Someone always hates someone

Someone always hates someone

Someone always sells a gun

Cos someone always hates someone

 

I died and I went to heaven

In a dream I never had before

A good friend who had gone before me

Had kindly left my name at the door

I looked on the face of the Almighty

Couldn't help myself

I started to shout

How come you made a mess of things

How come you didn't work it out

 

He said

Someone always hates someone

Someone always hates someone

Someone always sells a gun

Cos someone always hates someone

THE INCREDIBLE SADNESS OF BEING

It's dark and the night breeze rustles the tall conifers.  Ahead of me, at the end of the long driveway is our house.  The whole place is lit up and the curtains aren't drawn.

 It's a comforting sight, like a beam of hope in the slightly ominous, uneasy darkness that I find myself in.

 I can see my husband, Adolf, moving around in the kitchen.  He's wearing a blue and white striped butcher's apron and has his favorite scarred wooden spoon in his hand.

 I hope he's cooking stew and dumplings.  He's a great cook and I love Czech food.

 I tap lightly on the window as he takes the lid off the pot and carefully stirs its contents.  He doesn't hear me.

 I rap a little louder.  I can hear music filtering through the closed windows and I watch as he tastes the food and throws in a pinch of salt.

 I knock louder.  Why can't he hear me? 

 Someone calls to him from another room. 

 "I'm coming, mon cheri," he replies.

 Who's in my house?  And why am I outside at this time of night?

 I run around the house, peering in each window and eventually I find him in our bedroom, embracing a woman.  He throws his head back and laughs loudly. 

 I bang furiously on the window, but they don't hear me.  I run to the front door.  It's locked.  So is the back door.

 I start to panic.  I run to the study window as I usually leave this window open so that Bimbo, our miniature schnauzer can go and pee.

 The window is locked tight.  I see Adolf and the woman walk down the hallway, hand in hand, and enter the kitchen.

 I run back to the kitchen window - the woman is sitting on my favorite bar stool while Adolf pours her a glass of my favorite wine.

 I feel as though I'm living in a nightmare. 

 Bimbo wanders into the kitchen and she bends over to pat him fondly.  He wags his tail ecstatically and licks her hand.  I call out to him, but he too doesn't hear me and then I realize the truth.  I'm dead, no one can hear me.

 My head makes popping sounds, flashing lights scream in front of my eyes and I know I'm falling into an abyss of insanity.

 "Nooooo!" I scream in anguish and fall into the blackness…..

 I wake up.  I'm alone in our bed, Bimbo curled up at my feet. 

 Another day to get through with the reality that Adolf is dead and I'm here in the house, alone. 

 My life is the nightmare and my dream is but a dream.

 

The Bungalow

The bridge swayed gently as the wind wound around the deep ravine.  Tufts of untidy sun-bleached grass sprung from the crudely knotted handrails, like a little girl’s wild pigtails at the end of a busy play day.

 “D’you think it’s safe to cross this old thing?"  Ariel asked anxiously, still unnerved from the turbulent flight and the equally chaotic journey from the island's small airport to this desolate canyon, brought here by an old hippie-looking native driving a dilapidated Jeep with missing seats and ominous cracks in the chassis.

 The suspension bridge creaked a little louder and sullen grey clouds lumbered across the sky.  The air was heavy, dull, a precursor to the impending storm.

  “C’mon girl, it’s still a long way to the bungalow and that cold beer.  Git!.”   Paul gave her a gentle shove, but kept his hand on her shoulder for a moment.   It felt good to touch her, albeit briefly.   The next two days would either make or break them, as a couple.      

 Ariel gingerly stepped on the bridge, trying not to look down, where ageless, steaming thermal mud pots were scattered, each sending out their skeletal misty fingers into the air, hoping to find an unsuspecting victim.  They beckoned, and lured anyone to enter into their dark, mysterious ruptures and to perish among their steamy, molten rocks.  

“The storm’s coming” Paul urged, "Hurry up, will you?"

Ariel shook her head to free herself of the hypnotic influence of the watery wisps and concentrated on crossing the bridge without falling into their deadly embrace.

 At last, she stepped onto firm ground on the other side and watched as Paul made his way across the bridge, as sure footed as a young leopard.   

 A few moments later they reached the fragrant blue ocean and the bungalow they had rented for the weekend.

 The verandah looked cool and inviting and they dropped their tote bags on an old fashioned rattan lounger which was strewn with overstuffed cushions upholstered in bold reds and oranges and slashed with zigzags of pinks and whites.

 “Isn’t this great?” Paul hugged Ariel tightly.   He was hopeful that they could sort through their problems and not get divorced as Ariel was now threatening. 

 They ran to the water’s edge, feeling the warm ocean washing over their sandaled feet, and they breathed in the fresh and tangy salt air. 

 Two small fishing boats bobbed around on the ocean.  A seagull overhead screamed a warning and flew off.  The wind picked up and the fishing vessels bobbed crazily, like two plastic ducks in a bath tub.

 They watched as the two frantic fishermen began rowing back to shore.  The wind howled hungrily, and the sky darkened more.    Unable to fight the waves, the fishermen dragged their oars onto the boats and waited for a wave to bring them to shore.  As soon as they reached the beach, they jumped out and dragged their boats onto dry sand.  They looked alike, brothers, both tanned to a walnut color, bodies lean and stringy.

 “Doesn’t look as though they had a successful day, does it?” Paul said flippantly, but Ariel didn’t hear him as the wind began howling in earnest and whipped her hair across her face.  

 Behind them, the old bungalow let out a gut-wrenching shriek and a jagged piece of its corrugated iron roof flew off in the direction of the ocean.

 The airborne sheet of metal flew directly into the fishermen and cleanly decapitated them.  The two men stumbled around for a moment, as though unsure what to do next, and then crumpled into a misshapen heap.   Bright red blood gushed from their headless torsos.  The golden sands turned deep crimson.

 As if in slow motion, the two decapitated heads rolled towards the broiling ocean and were quickly swallowed up by the heaving waters.  The white froth turned a soft shade of pink and then reverted to white.

 “Where are their heads?” Ariel asked.  “Where are their goddamned heads?”

 “They’ll come back with the tide,” Paul replied stupidly, unable to comprehend what he'd just witnessed. 

 Screeching seagulls landed on the inert bodies, and snacked greedily on the warm flesh.  The wind died down.  An eerie yellow light pervaded the area.  

 “Oh, God, I can’t watch this, can’t we do something?”

 Spurred into action, Paul ran forward, waving his arms and shouting loudly.  The seagulls flew up a few feet, screeched angrily, then swooped back down again missing his head by a few inches, and then they flew away again and hovered and waited…

 “Get some blankets,” Paul shouted, “whatever you can find.  Hurry!”

 A few moments later, Ariel stumbled back carrying an armful of blankets, sheets and towels.

 “This can’t be happening,” she thought, “we’re supposed to be the only people on this side of the island!”

 She avoided looking at the grotesque bodies as Paul carefully covered the lifeless forms.  The disappointed birds flew off. 

 “Nothing we can do till morning," Paul said, "Let’s get inside, it’s wet out here.”

Ariel felt sour bile flooding her mouth.  “I’m going to be sick,” she muttered.

 “Gonna join you!” he replied. 

 Later on that evening, they stood on the verandah and looked out into the darkness, stunned by what had happened.  The crashing of the surf against the large boulders was comforting and felt normal, something they could understand.     

 When dawn broke Paul and Ariel went down to the water's edge, wondering what they were going to do with the two bodies.  The stretch of beach sparkled and glittered softly in the morning light.  The row boats rested quietly on the sands - it was a pure Kodak moment.  Not a single headless body to mar the perfect picture.

 Ariel stared at the waves as they softly lapped against the pristine sands. 

 "Not a shred of evidence left behind," she whispered in awe, wondering if perhaps she had suffered some kind of delusional seizure the previous evening.   

 The tides had done their job and removed whatever shouldn't have been on their property.

 Paul held out his hand.   Without hesitation she took it and smiled at him.   They walked back to the bungalow. 

 "I'm starving," she cried, "whats for breakfast?"