SWEAT EVERYTHING

I am standing outside at 5:15 this morning. The moon throws light on the trees and lawn. The dog has raced off around the corner of the house. I have just found on the living room rug the reason for her rush. I have easily picked up some of it, but her bowels are loose and the rest is a mess. Before I can have my coffee, I must clean it up.

When the dog hasn't returned after two minutes, I walk around the side of the house and see her out in the longer grass, running about chasing phantoms. I call her and she comes. Her legs are wet from the dew. We go back inside, her to the bedroom to take a nap, me to the kitchen to get paper towels, more plastic bags, soap and rug deodorant. I do wonder why this animal that wakes me at the least sound of thunder could not give me warning of her predicament.

I clean up as best as I can in my half-awake state, sprinkle deodorant about, and take the plastic bags out to the garbage can on the other side of the house. As I come back, I see the morning star through the trees to the east and note the other constellations in the sky. There is Orion in the southeast, making an early appearance for winter.

I handle the big things well, no, make that exceptionally. I do not celebrate excessively, nor do I mourn uncontrollably. The little things are something else, however, and today is for the preponderance of the small. I am amazed that I have kept my composure so far. As I see a spot I have missed, and take a soaped rag to it and the rest of the poor rug, my cool begins to fade.

I know that I must call the vet and take the dog to see him. That I can accept. I have to if I don't want this small thing to become a big thing. She could be sick. My last dog died suddenly of hepatitis. Right now I am not ready for something like that. It is when my labors are interrupted by the still-hungry cat that reason flees from my mind.

My tendency is to curse and yell at inanimate objects. To my mind, a hungry cat fits this category. I had just fed her thirty minutes ago, around five, when the dog asked me to get up to see her arts and crafts project. As I walked to the kitchen that first time I was aware of a terrible smell in the house. The nose always knows. Now having eliminated the source, and having opened windows, all I want to do is sit down and have a cup of coffee, but I must clean the rug first because I have a guest coming Sunday. Yet I cannot even do that because Piggy Cat wants to eat more.

The cat is the first to receive my extended diatribe on how lousy life can be. She is told that if she does not watch it, I won't let her back in the next time she gets out. She is not a satisfying target. She just shrugs and walks away, waiting to appear the next time I open the refrigerator. At this point I am only dealing with simple objects. Hope for the computer that I do not get a blue screen this morning, and that all my Internet pages load quickly, or it shall be the next to receive my wrath.

Four days ago it was the glider. I had bumped it with the mower and pushed into it, bending the hex bolts that held it together. The legs splayed inward and the swing bumped them. New bolts were needed. The ones in the hardware store were a half-inch too short. Yesterday I found longer ones at Home Depot, actually much too longer ones, but they do hold it together.

Both taking it apart and putting it back together brought out my finest quality, that knack of stringing words together to form phrases incredibly rich in forms of speech that would get me thrown off any children’s playground. I used to disguise my anger by mangling the words into unrecognizable gibberish, such as 'OH THE FILARAMIC PAGALOMER', but now with all this land, there is no need. I am sure people driving by must refer to me as 'The Madman of McCagg Road'.

I used to strike out at my tormentors. The car received a number of forearm slams and karate chops. It was only when I began to realize that these blows hurt me more than they hurt the object that I began to moderate this desire. I must say in my defense that though I consider the cat an inanimate object, I have never kicked her, probably because she would scratch me back.

I finally have my coffee and read my newspaper. It is all about the trials and tribulations of Carly Fiorina, the CEO of Hewlett-Packard. She is taking heat about her company's desire to merge with Compaq Computer. Carly is handling the big things well, but I wonder if her dog craps on her living room rug. Why should I care? She would have a servant to clean it up.

I pick up the paper towels that have covered the spot and get out the vacuum to suck up the rug cleaner. It has been working overtime lately. Yesterday it had to pick up the cat litter that my friend had distributed all over the floor near her box. That caused another exercise in primal screaming, this time at the dog who continually walked in my way. Today no one comes near me.

I take the last of the trash out to the garbage can, and for good measure take along my wasp spray to rid myself of their latest nest. I take aim carefully, and manage to spray it all over the window and not the underside of the sill. I want to cry, but I am too old. It hits me suddenly whose fault this is. I lift my head, look up at the ever-lightening sky and say in a loud, firm voice, "Will you get off my back!"