DAY 99: Cerberus and Sticks

It was a shanty on McMansion avenue, a reminder of the neighborhood's previous incarnation.  Gentrification had revitalized the neighborhood, but it had driven Mr Kosten inward.  He was usually seen wearing a flannel bathrobe and a grimace, and that was when he checked the mail, or straightened his 'BEWARE OF DOG" signs.
Cerberus was a blue pit mix; the posture suggested bulldog, and the proportions suggested bear.  Sticks was a scrawny hound breed, a silver-furred puppy that could tower over his adoptive brother - if he ever had the inclination.  They patrolled the Kosten estate day and night, barking off any would-be trespassers.
It happened that Mr Kosten's house was on the dividing line between the Raven Ridge housing development, and the Weeping Pines subdivision.  The two neighborhoods collided at Redford Avenue, and they chose to split the street down the middle.  Neither, however, were interested in claiming Mr Kosten.  Each had learned independently that he would not be convinced, cajoled, coerced, or bribed into ceding his property, and so they let him rot in his unclaimed spot.
Neither offered their trash services to him, which he did not miss; every couple of weeks, he would load his refuse onto a battered pickup truck and drive it to the dump himself.  And perhaps it was on one of those occasions that his gate was not secure enough, or simply not tall enough, but in his abscence, Sticks left the yard.

Cerberus called him back, but Sticks was intoxicated with freedom.  He dashed zig-zag from yard to yard, roaming further and further, until he disappeared in the mid-afternoon silence.  Cerberus trotted with worry, torn between the instinct to guard his home and to guard his brother.  Finally, he began to dig, calling and waiting for an answer...
He finished his hole first, and tunneled under the driveway gate.  Following the scent, Cerberus zigged and zagged, searching for any trace of Sticks.  He felt a rumbling under his feet, and turned to the source, seeing a schoolbus come to a stop at the corner.  As Cerberus walked toward it, the door opened, where a child waited to exit.  She saw Cerberus, and screamed, and the door closed.
Cerberus circled the bus, ran laps around it as he barked and growled.  Inside, some of the children stared at the window, in excitement or fear; others, along with the bus driver, were on their phones.  In a moment, parents began to exit their homes, to see the beast that had their children trapped.

And then Mr Kosten drove up.  Honking to get anyone out of the street, he saw Cerberus in the middle of the road.  He exited the truck, and called to him.  Cerberus was too jostled, too petrified; he kept barking everyone at bay.
Mr Kosten dropped to one knee, and called Cerberus.  The rest of the street froze as the pit walked to his human.  With a nuzzle and a pat, the old man led his dog into the truck cab.  Meeting no one's gaze, he called for Sticks, and walked over to the driver's side; from out of the yards, the hound leaped into the flatbed, just as he started the engine.  They drove down the avenue and up the gravel drive, closing the gate behind them.



inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Pluto's Crowd-Sourced Moons"

DAY 98: The Family Tree

Grandma got everybody together for blondies and lemonade, the better to ask us to get grandpa's skull.  He had died on the operating table the day before, and while his daughters - our mothers - wept and consoled each other, it was the grandchildren that were being entrusted with the solemn request.  His skull was to be cleaned and set into the family tree.

As it turned out, getting our hands on Grandpa's skull was the easy part.  Mr Wanabaker had known of Grandpa's wishes for years; he consulted with an immigrant butcher of indeterminate origin (who apparently possessed a sense of discretion, along with previous experience) to make the essential preparations.  When we went to the funeral home, Mr Wanabaker already had an urn, bearing the cremated remainder; he said the skull would be ready after the wake.

The wake was well-attended by many strangers, but we could sense those among the crowd who knew.  Whenever one of us would be mentioned as a grandson, the knowledgeable would respond with a narrowing of the eyes, as if they were studying our fortitude.  In their voiced condolence, they might spinkle in some tale of one of Grandpa's accepted challenges.  The conversation would usually end with a squeeze of the hand or shoulder, as if to say, "mind your grandpa, now..."

The next day, we received the skull, and returned to grandma's, for the next step.  She seemed bleary-eyed and agitated when she saw us on her step, and she scolded us for not calling first.  A minute after holding the skull, she was composed, and she led us to the southwest corner of the backyard.

The tree was massive, a testament to the resiliency of our lineage.  We had not planted it, but the tree had thrived from its symbiotic relationship with our ancestors.  Dwight looked up the trunk, and said to me, "You're the lightweight, dude.  Get up there."

It was 15 feet to the first branch; I started to argue with my cousin.  But the clatter of Grandma trying to drag over the ladder and hatchet defused our tiff.  We took the items from her hands; while my cousin made off with the ladder, she passed me the hatchet and said, "He wanted to be up in the crown, and facing the sunrise."

Unlike me, Dwight had visited our grandparents when he was tree-climbing age, so he gave me directions.  "Just look for Grandpa Malcolm - he'll be the lowest - and put Grandpa about twelve inches under him.  Resting above a branch is better, and threading a branch through him is great, too.  Just make sure it's gonna stay."

The ladder put me in reach of the low branch.  Slowly, I pulled myself up until I reached my great-grandfather.  His skull was half-embedded, the bark barely an inch behind his sockets.  I craned my neck upward, and counted three others, swallowed in various stages.  I even thought I saw the outline of a fifth, almost completely.obscured.

With a stick, Grandma tapped the side of the tree she chose; a twinge of vertigo made it feel like an earthquake.  But I found the best spot I could for Grandpa, and carved his 'seat.'  After a few minutes, I yelled down for the skull.  Dwight tossed first, but didn't reach me, and it fell back to Earth.  Grandma caught it with her apron, glaring at both of us before we made a second try.  The second try was good, and I set Grandpa in his final resting place.

When I was done, I yelled them to stand clear, and dropped the axe.  But back on the ladder, I had a second thought.  I pulled out my set of keys, searching for the least useful one.  I pulled it off the ring, with a Mt Rushmore souvenir keychain attached; I jammed the key into the tree, about two feet below Grandpa.  Patting an apology to the tree, I began my descent. 

inspired by Discover Magazine article, "A Drop of Goo Becomes World Famous"

DAY 83: Sunrise on Ivanpah

Morning in the desert is never as warm as one thinks.  Ron shivered as he saw the first rays of light escape the horizon.
He had come here on assignment with his team, searching for ways to shut down the power plant.  From his vantage point, he could see the outline of the Primm Valley Golf Club, who had no public umbrage with the plant.  Some members, in fact, saw the plant's development as an inroad, for development in the hitherto-overprotected desert acreage.  Other members had no interest in a sandtrap with over 50,000 mirrors in it; anonymously, they had set inquiries in motion about Ivanpah's impact on the environment.
The desert tortoise was a big focus; the plant had built a $50 million dollar fence, just to keep it out.  Payne had two assistants counting every turtle that was a week's crawl away.  But Ron was the bird guy; his assignment was to tally all the birds that had burst into flame flying overhead.  If he could find one on California's protected wildlife list, that would be game-set-match.
Two weeks in the desert, and he had little to show for it.  The folks at the club had started out nice; the debriefing had taken place on the course, over beers.  But after the first week, they weren't allowed back without satisfactory results.  Likewise, the folks at the plant had started cooperative, providing documentation, videos, and even the remains for perusal.  But their access lapsed after a week, and their calls weren't being returned.  But why would they?
He didn't have anything; anything that would expedite the investigations already being conducted, or slow down the project.  Nothing that would get him off the field, and running a department.  Nothing that would give him a life that would convince Norma to move back in.
He had managed a final walk onto the premises in the afternoon, to receive the last nice rejection he could expect on this trip.  But instead of leaving, he had stayed in the shadows overnight.  Ron stared over the valley that spread beyond the tower below; the sunlight would reach the mirrors soon. He took out a waxwing carcass from his jacket pocket.  It would have been nice if it had been a yellow warbler or one of those song sparrows.  But it was too common to do anyone any good.  He let it loose, into the morning.



Inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Giant Desert Solar Plant Powers On"

DAY 80: Number 175

I became a vegetarian around my 175th chicken.
When college didn't work out, I was looking for some money and an adventure.  I joined the crew of a cargo ship, helping transport some 400 chickens out of Portland.  Halfway to port, my lead found a sick one, told me to kill it, and send it to the kitchen.  I did it, and located my lead to let him know it was done; he happened to be with the captain, at the time.   I was sent back to the pens immediately, while the captain and my lead had words.
It was the captain who came back for me in the pens.  Live birds would be under Chinese jurisdiction, which meant an extended stay and uncertain repercussions ; the only certainty was not getting paid.  Bird parts, however, would have a ready buyer in Shanghai.  Effectively immediately, the chickens had to be slaughtered before we got to port.  With my lead relieved of his duties, the task of dispatching the birds was left to me; they gave me the keys of the equipment, a couple of manuals, and four days.

I figured out a routine pretty quick: after slitting the chickens in groups of eight, I'll pile them in a wire basket for scalding, then chill them in the ice water trough.  Plucking and prep would have to be on its own time, but the ones I couldn't would still have someone to buy them.  Someone got word (or, more likely, heard the non-stop squawking) and sent down a taser; that cut down the flapping and scratching.  I became scarily efficient.
Each crate held 120 chickens; I was nearly three crates done before I noticed the taser winding down.  I should have expected its charge to wear down eventually, but I wanted to get done what I could.  Five hens to the end of the crate, then time for a cigarette, toss out the blood buckets and freshen up the ice for the next batch...
This bird, I tased, then I laid it upside down to slit.  It got away from me, even as it grazed up on the blade.  For the next 30 seconds, it was flapping above me, clawing for higher ground; arterial spray out the neck, on me, on the other chickens, all over the hold... And then she was done.  She collapsed on top of the crate.

It was a lot quieter after that.  I looked over the remaining hens in the hold, counting back to number 175, draped on the cage.  I got it in the scalding pot.  I got the rest done, with 14 hours to port, before I returned to my bunk.  I took a plane home.
I don't have a problem with people eating meat, or overeating it, or with the people who provide it.  I'm just tired of it.



inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Chicken Could Go 'Round the World"

DAY 75: The March of the Dinosaurs

Clay wasn't used to being in the passenger seat, but it was his daughter's truck.  "You're working out at the Wilson farm, still?"

"Dad, it's a genetic research facility.  The Wilsons sold it ten years ago."

"Well, the Wilsons had it since the depression.  I'll call that jackalope factory whatever I like!"

Casey huffed.  "I work at a genetics lab."

So much for that conversation, he thought to himself.  Clay returned his focus on the Cibola skyline.

Clay was in the stables, trying to gauge how much of the old Wilson farm was left.  They had kept the structure (it always was a jewel), but it smelled different.  They still used it for livestock; maybe the cleaning and disinfecting were overpowering the few animals they kept.  Or maybe they were feeding them something weird.  He knew he raised Casey to have a conscience about this science, but he didn't know the rest of them...A knock at the wall; Casey was trying to get his attention.  "You gotta see this."

"You said it was a longhorn.""We call her 'longhorn'.  For obvious reasons."
Clay leaned forward against the railing, staring at the triceratops at the other end of the pen.  She lay out in the sun, seemingly uninterested in anyone or anything.  Clay tightened his grip on the railing, and he wondered if it would be strong enough for when she got mad.
Casey was enjoying the shock on her father's face.  "She's still a calf, about a third of what we expect her to grow.  So we need to reinforce her domesticated tendencies."
"Domesticated tendencies?"
"We boosted some of the genetic markers for empathic bonding - not enough to make it a new species this go-round, just a nudge in the right direction. She's as docile as your average brahma."
Clay let out a huff.  "Brahma, huh?... Well, let's get a bale out."  He dragged some hay out of the truck and shoved it over the fence.  Still ignored by the longhorn, Clay tapped his knife on the metal railing.  "Breakfast!  Here, girl!"
He turned to see if Casey was amused.  But Casey was having an argument with a man in a banker's suit.  Clay turned his attention back to the longhorn, and her ground-trembling steps.  Clay stood knee-high in the hay, kicking it around, staring sideways at the longhorn's approach.  She grunted, snuffling at the hay, deciding it was worth eating.  She was humid, radiating every drop of morning sun it had soaked in.  Clay grabbed a handful of straw and took a few steps back, facing sideways.  He murmured to drown out the distant shouting match, "Don't worry about them.  Just the two of us..."
Watching Casey argue, Clay saw his wife's fists and shoulders.  The expression on the suit's face was determined, but he was reasoning with a hornet.  Clay smiled.
He felt a tug on the hay in his hand; he let it go.  She was by his side now, chewing loudly. He said  to her, "I don't know how much time we got here, girl. What say we get to know each other?"
A large piece of cud fell onto his boot.  With her thick tongue, she licked the cud back noisily back into her mouth.  He stepped onto the gate, out of the path of the longhorn's appetite.
Casey, still arguing with the suit, remained unaware of her father's progress.  Clay looked back at the longhorn, placidly sopping up the remaining hay.  "Now or never, I guess..."  He pushed off, aiming behind the crown.

He didn't know if it was contact with the longhorn's back or her fringe that started it, but she bellowed from the shock.  She ran the perimeter, bucking and roaring.  Clay held tightly to her crown, splayed across her back, talking softly into every part of her body he thought could be her ears.  As the longhorn slowed down, he began to pet at her neck, soothing her.  After half a minute, she was calm enough for Clay to seat himself upright, and see the infuriated expression on his daughter's face.  The suit had fainted into the dirt.
Before Casey could release an ounce of fury, Clay held up his hand, signaling her to keep calm.  "We got an understanding.  Get another bale."



inspired by Discover Magazine article, "New Dino, Cousin of Triceratops, Discovered"

DAY 67: The River of Dust

Paris walked the riverbed, waiting for the wind to return. He had lost the camp two days ago, coming down from his psychotropic adventure, and the remains of the river was the first change in the environment that had registered with him.  There was no water to point downstream, but he had run into a breeze that felt directed, so he walked in that direction.  The air was slight - non-existent, in some stretches- but he walked on.

He reached the center column that protruded from the riverbed.  The shade was welcome, so he stood beneath and collected himself.  He was so thirsty. He curled up as much of himself into the shadow and waited for anything. Doubt caught up with him: was he any closer to being found?  To finding civilization?  He needed a better vantage point.

Paris looked above him, at the outcropping, and a shape too precise to be natural, poking out.  Any color had been lost to the elements.  But Paris had regained enough strength to be curious.  He pulled himself up to investigate.

It hurt to climb, but he was in the column's shadow, and he had something to think and do besides walk.  He touched it: petrified wood, bathed in crumbled mud.  As Paris put weight on it, the boat shifted, then held in place; it was wedged.  The water that had pressed it there was long gone.
As he pulled himself over the edge, the wind began to spiral around him.  He leaned on the boat, only for it to give way.  "Help me!" he cried, as he fell back to earth, and saw the boat follow...

He awoke underneath the boat.  The only light he could see with, faded rapidly, carried off by the increasing winds that whipped over his new coffin.  Even if he had the power to stand, it would not be with his own legs; the boat had landed on an ankle, crushing it.  But he barely had the strength to weep, and the boat prevented him from even turning his head heavenward.  So he lay there, consigning himself to the dust, an ear to the ground, when he heard a distant rumbling, like thunder...


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Colorado River in Drought's Grip"

DAY 60: The Muskie in the Tub

They were allowed to return to the cabin two days after the water receded.  It took that long to clear the main road of the Roadside Giant, an 80-foot Englemann Spruce whose roots capsized out of the overhydrated soil.  When road crews partioned the trunk, they discovered the Giant was nearly 200 years old.
Kov's jeep made the journey to the cabin. The river seemed to have brought everything it could carry to their doorstep. Lawrence helped his wife over the refuse. Ty and Viv began clearing branches, but it devolved into a mudfight. Kov was helping Lawrence move some doors when they heard the Mrs scream.
She had made it to the patio, where the hot tub held a surprise in the retained floodwater. It was a tiger muskie, and it bared its teeth at those who dared wake it.  She had grabbed a plank to club the muskie, when Lawrence cried, "wait! Kov, find the lid!"
Lawrence embraced his wife, consoling her, while Kov secured the lid.  He would later confide in Kov, "That river's taken enough from me.  That muskie's mine..."


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "The Colorado Deluge"

DAY 17: The Flock in the Rock

Cyrus was overtaken by the view of the expansive horizon, and he let out a mighty yawp.  He stood there in the sun, listening to his echo decay across the miles.  "You know, this used to be sea level," he said out loud.

"So, you were there?" his wife Aurora quipped.  She stood behind him, arms crossed, ready to lead him back to the trail.

He sniffed, "Missed it by a day or two."  He outstretched his shaking hand, and let Aurora guide him away from the outlook.  

To Cyrus, the Grey Pines Forest had been his great love affair.  He was thoroughly a creature of the city, but the speed of contemporary life could be overwhelming.  That stretch of wilderness centered him, provided him the axis on which his world spun.  The stolen moments of his life were littered through that forest, and the prospect of devoting time to their recollection had eased the transition into retirement.

Aurora tolerated his passion, as foreign as it was to her.  In her perspective, she wasn't retired - simply concentrating her nursing duties to one patient.  She appreciated good sunlight and pleasent breezes, but when Cyrus pointed yet another majestic vista, all she saw the affirmations posters she used to see physician's offices and powerpoint presentations.  

Cyrus was different when they came here.  At home, he seemed constantly overwhelmed, as guarded as a stranded tourist with no language skills.  Last Thanksgiving, they were forced to resort to using a larger kids table for the first time; the change was catastrophically drastic for him.  But the forest had a permanence that Cyrus found comfort in.  He was an erudite guide, calm and controlled, and so happy.

Three steps forward, and then Cyrus stopped.  "I need to show you something, Aurora.  I need to tell you something."

Cyrus pointed to the rock wall beside them, where the skeletons of three prehistoric proto-birds jutted from the stone.  "Don't they look like they're flying?  But they're kinda not built for it, with the legs like that.  They were grounded, like chickens, and they probably got caught got in a mud slide.  At least, that's what me and this paleontologist was thinking - there was a professor here, looking at the rock, when I was here a few years ago.  He pointed out the leg bones, and I told him what I thought about the mud slide.  He really liked that idea..."

Aurora nodded, and ushered him back to the trajectory of their parked car.  As he walked, he dragged his outstretched hand across the wall of rock.


inspired by Discover Magazine article, "Ancient Bird Shakes Up Avian Evolution"