El Burro Volador

(Part II of an intermittent, ongoing series)

On any given day, my first order of business after waking up is to loose Clementine upon an unsuspecting world (actually, I’m pretty sure the world suspects by this time, but there’s not much it can do).  This is a fairly involved process, for safety reasons.  First I take the master remote which controls Clemmy’s cage defenses from its wall dock.  Next I deactivate the perimeter fragmentation charges, and kill the voltage running through the cage itself.  Finally, I draw back the three tempered-steel bolts and fling wide the door of her cage while crying “Havoc!”.  Originally this was intended as a warning, something akin to yelling “Fore!” on the golf course, but I find that it also helps keep Clem’s attention focused on me as we head for the bedroom door, so that she doesn’t pounce upon my sleeping wife.

Then we head down the hall to…oh wait, crap, actually, I have to go back to the bedroom now and put on some sweats, because the school bus stops right behind our house at this time of morning, which means that there’s a crowd of school children milling around across the street from our back yard waiting for the damn thing, and apparently their uptight parents don’t think they’re ready to see the kinds of things that are sometimes left uncovered by the secondhand maternity lingerie I usually sleep in.  So I go back and change while Clem cavorts in the hall.  Gypsy makes a plaintive cry of “Food!”  which must seem to Clem to be an accurate assessment of Gypsy’s ecological role, because she takes of after him, which thankfully rids me of both of them for the precious time required to get dressed.

Then I close the bedroom door behind me, so that ‘Bekah will be spared any further ruckus, and pad down the hall.  When I reach the kitchen Cleo, the remaining member of our little menagerie, attempts to dive-bomb me from the top of the fridge, but her miniscule bodyweight and the unique aerodynamic properties of her incredibly fluffy coat conspire against her, causing her to get caught in a sudden updraft and float off-course.  Figuring that it will be some minutes before she drifts down to the floor, I ignore her and focus on more immediate matters.

I can’t see Clementine, but Gypsy’s panicked bleating leads me to suspect that she has him trapped in the excruciating Fujiwara Pawlock variation she’s been practicing at Doggy Arena.  “Clementine!” I yell in the general direction of the living room as I sling open the sliding door to the backyard.  Clem shoots by me like a streak of heat, yapping out her diminutive Boston Terrier challenge to the disinterested mob of adolescent punks across the street.  I flip them a desultory bird myself as I shut the door.  It’s going to be a long day…