Lately, I’ve been whistling habitually. I don’t know why. Something fried out in my central nervous system. Too much coffee maybe. I whistle very softly, so usually only I can hear it. I often whistle the same tune over and over until I want to run full speed into a cinderblock wall, with my tongue between my teeth. Stop the damn whistling once and for all.

This afternoon I was having coffee with my Dad, and I told him I couldn’t get Finiculi Funicula out of my head. Something about the first few notes are similar to a way that I whistle for my doggie; I hit those notes, and the tune just won’t stop. He suggested replacing this with It’s a Small World.

I believe this is the last straw. I’ve officially gone to the zoo. In between choruses of It’s a Small World, my brain is just going bubitabubitabuhbuhbuh.

I guess if Reality wants me, Reality has my cell number.

The registration for my blue and white pickup truck was due next week. So yesterday I took it down to my local garage for the required smog check. This is bogus. It’s a ripoff of the people of California for no purpose but to generate money for the state. There is nothing that could reasonably be expected to happen to fuel injected, catalytic converter-equipped, 4 cylinder engine that justifies this. And absent reasonable suspicion that I’ve fooled with the smog system, it’s an unlawful search.

Here’s a good question for you: Why do we pay $8.95 for a “Certificate,” that’s nothing more than a number transmitted by computer from the smog station to the DMV?

So today I went online and paid my registration fee. $69. I know that seems lightweight compared to some of you driving newer cars. But it includes a $8 “weight fee.” How does the DMV know I’m overweight? Are they having me watched? Maybe there’s a sensor under the chair in the coffee shop, and some guy in a surveillance center saying, “Holy Crap!”

… And when I lose some weight, as I hope to, how do I get this charge removed? There’s nothing about it on the DMV site, but I’m gonna find out.

… Finally, I think it’s clear they can stop trying to get me to buy vanity plates.

Well Tasha and I had kind of a rough day. My sweet little doggie is really pretty blind now, and she gets confused. I have to keep an eye on her, and I’m not doing a perfect job yet.

At one point this afternoon, I was at my folks’ place, and I went down the hall to my Mom’s home office to check my e-mail. Tasha was asleep on her blankie in the kitchen. After a while, I heard a strange whimper, went down the hall and found Tasha. She had her head wedged between the wall and a giant package of paper towels – Costco size. She couldn’t breathe well; when I pulled her out, her muzzle and chest were covered with heavy slobber. Her little heart was pounding like crazy.

I’ve always heard that dogs adapt well to things like the loss of a limb, eyesight or hearing. I don’t think this is the case for my little friend. I think being blind is aggravating her like crazy. It’s not fair. And anyone inclined to say, “Life isn’t fair” can just bite me.

Later, Tasha settled down for an afternoon nap, and I went swimming. Thank God I have that going on right now. It’s the only time lately when my mind is clear and my body has any energy.

…

The water is very cold. Ten miles upstream, it’s still snow. For a while, it hurts to stand and look at the trees, but he thinks about her and how this will keep him clear and even for a while. He thinks about his secrets, about ice and time and green. Before long, he’s used to the cold.

He knows all his thoughts are true, that his memories don’t lie. There are lies and twisted arcs of distance in the reasons for killing, but the blood was real. And that’s all the same color; the color not found in water or rocks, moss, bark or needles of the trees. Let that color be only found in flags, he thinks, stepping in and searching for a place to stand. So many stones, it’s hard to find a place that’s not too slick.

…

He wonders if the jay has someone to love, maybe remembers chicks to be fed and crows – come up from the valley to escape the heat like him – to be chased from the nest. Crows are murderous, he thinks, and chuckles to himself. Meaning one man’s love is another man’s lamb on hot coals, with corn on the cob and singed hair. But everything needs half a chance to live and grow. Now why is she yelling about the meat, overcooked, undone? Dragged off by that crazy dog when his back was turned a moment, and the car came from nowhere. Nothing to be done for it now, except to keep the children close.

…

In time, his forgetting is complete. No lambs bleating, no people, no street. Just water that was snow, and rocks that are time. There is no awning above them of unfortunate human blue. Just the sunlight through the needles of the trees, which fall and float away or cover the trail, where he goes barefoot back to his car. And a cardinal of brilliant, boastful red, that stands on a branch and turns to watch him go.

© 2005 by Kyle Kimberlin

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