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Don't Wash the Dog on Monday ~ by Bruce Cook

 
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Bud Brewster
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PostPosted: Sat Dec 16, 2023 6:09 pm    Post subject: Reply with quote

______________DON'T WASH THE DOG ON MONDAY
__________________ (A tall tale with great special effects)
______________________by Bruce Cook
_____________________Copyright@ 1993
________________________________________________________

The small Iowa farm was imbedded in the late August heat like a fly in amber. The sky was a yellow dome between the earth and the heavens, holding in the killing heat that parched the withering crops and sapped the life from everything that walked, crawled, or flew. The sun was a bright fuzzy spot in the sky, glaring down angrily on the parched fields, causing the hazy air to shimmer and boil and distort the distant mountains.

The gray wooden sides of the two-story farmhouse stood against the sandy wind with silent dignity, holding back the dust as best they could, creaking and moaning when a strong gust assaulted them. The windows were opaque with a thin coat of brown dirt, the same dirt that danced in whirlwinds around the house like a tribe of ghostly Indians, making ready for war.

Behind the house stood a huge barn. On top of the barn was a rusted weather vane that creaked and spun with the whirling wind, pointing this way and that. Half a dozen chickens ran loose in the yard, searching for the occasional bug on the sun-baked earth.

On the back porch of the house sat an old women, older than the house and twice as gray, swaying slowly in a big sturdy rocking chair. At her feet was a shaggy rug with four paws and a cold wet nose — a sleeping dog with hair so long and unkempt there was no way to tell head from tail.

The dog's name was P.J., and the old woman's name was Granny. She hadn't heard her real name in twelve years, and she would probably never hear it again, for she was Granny to one and all, and that's all they ever called her. She bore the handle the way she bore everything else — with stoic silence. She had little to say on any subject, and even when she did, few people bothered to listen, for even though her heart was good and true, her mind had faded with age. To put it kindly, Granny marched to the beat of a different drummer.

As sunset approached, the wind died down, the dust settled, and a massive bank of gray clouds fell into rough formation on the far horizon. Granny watched the clouds with a practiced eye and made silent predictions about the weather, predictions based on eighty-four years of close kinship with earth and wind and sky. She watched and she rocked. She saw the dog raise his shaggy head and sniff the air, but Granny said nothing — not to the dog, or to the setting sun, or to Ellen Jackson, the young woman who pushed open the screen door and stepped out onto the porch. She was wiping her hands on a cleaning rag as she studied the old woman for a moment.

"Granny, why don't you come inside? It's mighty hot out here."

Granny just continued to rock silently, then she turned to peer at Ellen and narrowed her eyes as she said, "What?"

Granny didn't hear so good. With a deep sigh Ellen said loudly, "If your tired a' rockin', you can come inside now. I'm all through a' clean downstairs."

Granny stared at Ellen for a long moment, then she spoke in her graveled voice. "How long to supper?"

"About an hour, I 'spect." There was another long wait while Granny mulled over her choices: to rock or not to rock, that was the question. Finally:

"It's coolin' down some, now. Reckon I'll stay out here."

"Suit yourself."

"What?"

"I said that's fine, Granny," she shouted, smiling to offset the volume with a friendly expression. Granny swung her gaze back to the far horizon. Ellen turned to go back inside, then said, "Oh, have you seen the boys?"

"What?" said Granny.

"Where . . . are . . . the . . . boys?" Ellen bellowed.

Granny had to think a few seconds, then she said, "They're in the barn, I'm thinkin'."

Ellen shielded her eyes with one hand and looked towards the barn. "Are they helpin' Hammond fix the wagon?" said Ellen, but she had forgotten to raise her voice, and Granny continued to watch the day finish its work. Ellen cupped her hands around her mouth and called loudly towards the barn. "Hammond!"

It startled Granny and she shot an annoyed look at Ellen.

A tall, weathered man in faded overalls came out of the barn and approached the house. Hammond Jackson's dirty boots shook the porch as he clumped up the wooden steps and stood before Granny and his wife. His big square hands were covered in dirt, and there was a smug of grease on his sun-baked face. He wiped his hands absently on his faded overalls.

"We finally got that new wheel on the wagon," he said. "But I reckon it's too late to get much work done today. Besides — " he turned to look at the clouds on the horizon. They looked darker and closer, obscuring the setting sun. "We might actually get some rain this evenin', Lord willin'."

"Then you might as well wash up for dinner. But do it at the pump," Ellen said sternly. "I spent all day cleanin' the downstairs, and I won't have you and the boys trackin' dirt inside." She slapped the rag in her hand against Hammond's shoulder and watched a puff of dust spring up.

"Ah, I ain't that dirty," Hammond replied with a concealed smile. "Why don't I just step inside and give myself a good shake, they way old P.J. does."

At the sound of his name, the dog raised his head for a moment. Hammond started towards the door, but Ellen shoved him back, pretending dismay.

"And that's another thing," said Ellen. "I want that mangy dog to get hisself a good bath a-fore supper. He's dirtier than the mops I used to clean the house. I know those youngun's will let him inside as soon as my back's turned."

"Okay, I'll tell the boys," said Hammond. "You just get supper on the table before we all starve to death." He turned to Granny and watched her rock for a moment. The old women had lost interest in the conversation, probably because she couldn't hear most of it, bless her heart. Hammond raised his voice and said, "Granny, don't you want to go inside now? You been rockin' since lunch."

Granny swung her wrinkled gaze up to Hammond's face and worked her jaw around for a moment, getting her dentures set right so she could talk. Finally she said, "Is lunch ready yet?"

Hammond smiled. "No, but supper will be on the table soon. Will that do?"

Granny's expression didn't change as she thought it over. Then, "I reckon' it will. Just don't forget to call me."

Hammond turned towards the barn and let loose a good howler for his two sons. "Hey, Tim! William! Com'eer, boys."

At the end of a five second count, two lanky teenagers exploded from the barn at a dead run, obviously racing with all the wild abandon that youth could offer. They pushed and pulled at each other, jockeying for first place with no regard for fair play or foul treatment. The chickens fled for their lives as the boys tore across the bare earth between the barn and the house until they skidded to a stop just inches shy of a collision with the porch that would have brought the whole structure crashing down.

In perfect unison they both said, "Yeah, Paw?"

Hammond wore a faint smile as he looked down at his sons. They were less than a year apart in age, both strong and healthy, both brown-haired and freckled like their mother, and both destined to perpetually mischief all the days of their lives. William, the oldest, was a good inch taller and little bit thinner than Tim. He would forever lord the extra age and the extra inch over his brother, but Tim held his position in the family by periodically wrestling his less muscular brother to the ground and sitting on him until William's face turned interesting shades of purple.

Hammond had taken a jackknife from his pocket and was digging grease from under his fingernails. Without looking up he spoke in a quiet, conversational tone. "You boys look mighty hot and tired. Howja like a cool dip in the water, eh?"

William pushed a lock of brown hair out of eyes as his face lit up with surprise and pleasure, the same look Tim wore at the thought of a quick trip down to the creek where the old tire hung from a frayed rope above the clear, shady water.

"That's a rippin' good idea, Paw!" said William. "We won't be late for supper, we promise." Tim was nodding his head vigorously in agreement.

Hammond's smile broadened a bit as he said, "I'm sure you won't be, boys. After all, the pump is right there, and the dog is right here, and it shouldn't take long to lather up and slosh down one useless dog, eh?"

Two pictures of disappointment stood in the dirt and looked up at their father as he clumped down the porch steps and headed back towards the barn. As he passed the boys he said, "Oh, and get yourselves spruced up, too. Momma just cleaned the downstairs."

Tim and William exchanged looks of bleak resignation, then they started shuffling slowly towards the porch steps . . . towards the dog . . .towards the albatross that had suddenly dropped around their necks.

With elaborate casualness William said, "Well . . . I reckon there ain't nothing to do but . . . get to it. Go fetch the big wash tub, okay?"

"You go fetch it. I fetched it last time."

"What last time?"

"The last time we washed the dog," said Tim.

"You wasn't born the last time we washed the dog!"

"Then how come I remember being the one that fetched the tub?"

"Mistaken identity," William said patiently. "You're rememberin' me do it."

"Wrong, that'd be the next time. I'll remember you doin' it the next time we wash the dog."

They had climbed the steps while they argued, and now they stood facing P.J., the comatose cause of all their problems. Granny was still rocking gently and watching the slow roll of the gray giants is the sky. She glanced over at the boys for a moment and then ignored them.

Tim and William stood gazing down at the dog, and somehow P.J. sensed the attention and raised his shaggy head to meet the boys' eyes. The dog wasn't used to seeing the boys standing still and quiet this way, and the sight must have made the animal nervous. He wagged his tail tentatively, making a thump-thump-thumping sound on the rough boards.

Tim leaned forward and rested his hands on the knee's of his soiled overalls, his face a portrait of concern. "Ah, poor old dog. You look mighty hot and uncomfortable in that dusty fur coat."

William leaned down and copied his brother perfectly. "It just ain't humane," said William, imitating Tim's tone. "I hate to see an animal suffer, don't you?"

"Can't stand it. I figure there's just two ways we could remedy this. We could wash him . . . or we could put him out of his misery with Paw's shotgun. Which do you think he'd prefer?"

"The shotgun," said William, keeping a straight face. "But let's wash him instead,"

"Right!"

Both boys lunged forward and grabbed P.J. before the dog could react to its instinctive sense of danger. They somehow located P.J.'s collar amidst the forest of hair and began dragging him down the steps towards the pump. A dim memory in the dog's head awoke at the sight of the pump, and he began to struggle.

"Fetch a rope!" said William, his arms wrapped around the squirming dog. Tim dashed off to the barn, and William shouted to him after he was inside. "And get the big wash tub while you're in there!" He laughed when he heard Tim call him a dirty name.

Granny called out from the porch. "What?"

"Nothin', Granny," William said to her, his voice slightly muffled by a writhing dog in his face. "Me and Tim are just gonna wash P.J."

Granny stopped rocking and leaned forward to study the situation carefully. "What's that ya said? You gonna do what?"

Tim was returning from the barn, dragging a huge wash tub and trailing a length of well-worn rope. "We're gonna wash this dirty old dog, Granny," said Tim as he positioned the tub beneath the pump.

Granny watched carefully as the boys lifted P.J. and forced him down into the round tub, a difficult feat in view of the fact that the dog was more than able to fill it and less than willing to try. But one lazy dog is no match for two healthy farm boys, and so the poor animal soon felt a cascade of water gushing over him from the pump as Tim gleefully worked the squeaky handle up and down.

"Hey, we forgot the soap!" exclaimed Tim.

"I'll get it. Hold the prisoner, sergeant!"

"Yes, sir!" said Tim, pouncing on the dog as William leapt up and sprinted for the house. He shook the porch as he thundered across it, yanked open the screen door, and bounded through. Granny scowled as the screen door bumped the edge of her chair, and she was still scowling when the door was blasted open again by William's return trip, followed by the voice of his mother as she yelled at the boy to get his dirty self out of her clean house.

William leapt completely over the stairs and created a cloud of dust as his feet smacked the ground. Tossing the soap into the water with the dog, William manned the pump and started drowning both P.J. and Tim, the latter of which just sputtered and laughed while the former made renewed efforts to escape his tormentors.

P.J.'s struggles were sloshing enough water out of the tub to soak both the boys. Tim fished the soap from the water and started lathering the dog with one hand while holding him firmly with the other. The dog liked being rubbed by the bar of soap and he settled down a bit, so the boys didn't tie the rope around his neck.

And then, from the porch, came an incredible question from Granny.

"You gonna wash the dog today?"

The boys paused for a moment and looked at Granny with no little sense of wonder. With sarcasm only slightly under wraps, William said, "Yeah, Granny, we thought today would be about right . . . since we're all soakin' wet anyway."

Granny looked like she was trying to remember something important. She gazed up at the dark, looming clouds while she coaxed the idea through her brain. Her jaw worked around a few times, maneuvering her false teeth into position for another comment on the situation. The boys saw it coming and waited for it, but when it came it was from way out in left field.

"What day is this?" the old woman said.

Since it was summer and school was out, this wasn't a question the boys couldn't answer quickly. They looked at each other for help, but then William remembered they'd gone to church the day before.

"It's Monday, Granny."

"What?" Granny cocked her good ear towards them to hear better.

"It's MONDAY!" the boys bellowed in unison.

Concentrating furiously, Granny furrowed her wrinkled brow and squinted her eyes so sharply they disappeared entirely amidst the cluster of soft wrinkles. Then she spoke loudly and clearly and with total conviction.

"It's bad luck to wash the dog on Monday."

Now it was the boys' turn to say the magic word. "What?"

"Bad luck. It's Monday. Bad luck to wash a dog on Monday."

Tim looked at William, and William looked at Tim, and P.J. sensed something important was going on so he held very still. This was one of those situations where Granny said something so bizarre that her listeners were seduced into asking useless questions.

He pondered the subject for a moment, then he said, "Okay . . . what'll happen if we wash the dog on a Monday, Granny."

Granny spoke quickly with complete conviction. "It'll sour the whole week. It's bad luck. Best wait 'till tomorrow."

Consider the situation: P.J. was lost in a cloud of white soap suds. Both boys were soaked to the bone, and the tub was full to the brim. Granny's suggestion seemed a touch impractical at this point. Both boys starting giggling, but then they stopped when they say the hard look on Granny face. Their father gave free trips to the woodshed for disrespectful behavior, so the two boys chose a different approach.

"Uh . . . maybe it's Tuesday," Tim said to his brother. "Yeah, I think it's Tuesday."

"Oh, heck yeah!" William agreed quickly. "What's wrong with me?" He spoke to Granny without a ghost of a smile. "It's Tuesday, Granny. I was wrong. Tuesday. All day long."

Granny's face was unreadable as she leaned back slowly and started rocking. She watched the boys as they resumed their soapy baptism of P.J. The sun hadn't set yet, but the day had darkened and the sky was gray with low clouds. A breeze started moving across the land — a breeze that held a coolness and dampness that hadn't been felt in the whole county for weeks. The rumble of distant cannon fire rolled down out of the sky, and the weather vane on top of the barn finally decided which way the wind was blowing.

It was blowing west . . . from the approaching storm.

Hammond Jackson stepped out of the barn and studied the dark sky with a look of concern. There was a smell of rain in the air, and the sound of thunder was getting closer.

At the pump, things had gotten seriously rowdy, with much splashing of water and throwing of suds. From where Hammond stood, it was not clear as to who was bathing who. But he realized that if the job wasn't concluded soon, the muddy hole being created around the pump was going to undo all the progress thus far.

"Get that mutt rinsed and dried off, boys!" he called out sharply. "We need to get inside purdy quick. I'm thinkin' there's a good sized blow a-comin'."

"Yes, Pa," the boys said together.

The wind had picked up noticeably, lifting thin clouds of dirt from the hard-packed ground and letting them mingle with the sky. A loud peel of thunder dropped down from the heavens and rolled across the land. Hammond latched the barn door and hurried into the house. Tim manned the pump handle and starting giving P.J. a reenactment of the Great Flood, with William playing the part of Noah. The dog's head began to emerge from a white cocoon of suds.

On the porch, Granny had stopped rocking and was peering at the sky intently. She was leaning forward, her face turned upwards, her jaw thrust forward and her mouth tense.

And then it happen.

A bright lance of lightning arced down from the black clouds and touched the rusty weather vane on top of the barn. The coating of rust exploded outward in a shower of sparks like fireworks on the 4th of July, and the weather vane glowed red hot. The clap of thunder was so sharp and loud it left the boys as deaf as Granny. For a half-second Tim, William, and P.J. were immobile with shock — then the boys bolted towards the house in a blind panic.

P.J. surged up from the soapy water like a dolphin, white suds flying in all directions, and tore after the boys.

William was on the porch steps, and Tim was right behind him when a bolt of lightning hit the pump, just ten feet away. The thunder clap rattled the windows of the house and caused the terrified chickens in the yard to flee smack into the closed barn door.

A bright ball of electrical energy the size of a grapefruit floated off the pump, skimmed low over the ground, and sailed right passed the frantic dog. It touch Tim's running feet just as he reached the porch. The shock stunned the boy and made him fall heavily on the steps.

Then the glowing ball rolled clean up his back, floated through the air towards William, and caught the boy squarely in the seat of the pants just as the orb of light winked out of existence. William yowled and leapt forward with such force he dove right through the lower half of the screen door and wound up lying half in and half out of the house.

P.J. galloped up Tim's back where he lay on the steps, shot across the porch and plunged through the busted screen, leaving globs of white suds around the door's edges and muddy footprints along William's back.

Tim — feeling bruised but unharmed — crawled up onto the porch just as William slowly and carefully extracted himself from the ruined screen door. Both boys sat back on the rough boards in dazed silence while their mother and father rushed out to see if there was anything left of their family. From inside the house they all heard the sound of crockery breaking in the kitchen as P.J. wedged himself behind the china cabinet.

A hard downpour began to hammer the bare earth, filing the air with a sound like bacon frying in a pan. Nobody said a word for a long ten seconds — and then, speaking just loudly enough to be heard above the deluge, Granny made a her statement.

"Whuddi tell ya? Monday. Don't never wash a dog on Monday! It sours the whole week."

Then, as the whole crowd just looked at her in utter amazement, Granny said, "Well? Is lunch ready yet?"

_________________
____________
Is there no man on Earth who has the wisdom and innocence of a child?
~ The Space Children (1958)
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