Wednesday, April 11, 2007

The Kibble Beast

Every so often,over the past four years, I have been tempted to act as literary agent.

I discovered on the web a unique writer, another doctor's daughter, who seemed to crack the IQ scale at about 200. I love intelligent women. I hate stupid women, because they are manipulative and myopic.

Her name was Dawn Caplan, and man, could she write.

So I put on my literary agent's hat and had her submit something.

Here is how it went.

Dear Ms. Dann,

Thank you for taking the time to read my submission. Since Ivan Prokopchuk suggested your paper as a venue I have been reading the Facts and Arguments section on-line, and have enjoyed it thoroughly.

Below you will find my address, etc., and a copy of my essay, "The Elusive Kibble Beast". I hope that you enjoy it, and I look forward to hearing from you.

Best Regards,
Dawn Caplan
230 South Railroad Street
Lawton, MI 49065, USA
ph. 269-624-6692

The Elusive Kibble Beast

It was the shoes; the damn shoes were everywhere. They perched on windowsills, side tables, even the dining room table. None of them matched – sometimes in the bathroom she would find a tennis shoe that matched the one on the entertainment center two rooms away. More often they were singles. Sometimes there were socks too, and the odd bit of underwear, or a half eaten page from a book – or perhaps it was a bill.

Hunting, always hunting. Elusive beasts, her tiny prey. The dogs didn’t know where to look, so they stayed home, stalking shoes, socks, and the really smelly bits of underwear she was too forgetful to put away, or wash.

The cat was easier…she went out each morning after pawing her mistress awake, and came in each evening to mouse, or bat about the flotsam and jetsam on the floor. Bits of an insole, a stray underwire, the lower corner of the cover of “The Stand”. And always there was the fur, imaginary bunnies to bat about, until they gathered large and intimidating in the corners and lesser-used parts of the space.

It would have been a satisfying life, if not for the constant hunt. The damn little beasties could be elusive, and it was difficult to capture them in large numbers, which was what her beasties required. What she required. So it was out at daylight, and back long after it was done, with a few meager coupons that could be traded for the meat of the elusive kibble beast. She was too old to hunt, really. Now she hunted for the means to buy the product of the hunt.

She was haunted by the shoes, the half-eaten bits of leather that told her she was not bringing home enough. She was haunted by the days she was gone, when she missed the dogs’ aboriginal joy in shredding the bits of civilization she left carelessly sitting about. She would have happily joined them in shredding the navy-blue high heels, but regretted the loss of the insoles in her brown leather clogs.

She would come home, and place the shoes, socks, and still recognizable bits of underwear out of reach of the dogs. It was a habit. She seldom thought to retrieve them to a more appropriate location…after all, they were safe, sitting on the windowsills, fireplace mantel, and yes, even the dining room table. She considered mounting them above the fireplace as trophies, but decided that she could still use the slightly chewed black pumps in her hunt. The rest, like the swatted mosquitoes she sometimes forgot to wipe off the cupboards, would serve as a reminder that the hunt must go on.

Woman can write, huh?

I don't know what luck Dawn has had. I know her life, like many of the correspondents here has been affected by something of a personal tsunami and she now lives with her parents. Dawn and I have lost contact.

But every so often we are touched with a strange intelligence, not at all like our own.

(I have used Pam's {Sienna's} dog pic, I loved that pic from out of Victoria, Australia. I am sure neither Dawn or Pam will mind if I use it to illustrate the story.



Josie said...

What a wonderful story. I was reminded of someone I know very close to me in my life (not me) when I read it.


Islandgrovepress said...

I wouldn't even dare to think...