There was an eerie tree in the yard of the house – somehow, halfway up the tree, visitors were offered a splash of orange, the color of autumn and Halloween.
The tree had seen many trick-or- treaters, ghosts and goblins and spine-tingling specters during its many years in the yard. It had been home to squirrels, safe haven for wandering racoons and landing zones for birds of all types.
The eerie tree set the tone for Halloween.
Meanwhile, in the house, Annie, the Heeler Mix with an attitude, had stretched out on the couch and was awaiting Halloween’s arrival. At first she kept watch through the slats of the venetian blinds behind the couch, then, in traditional dog fashion, she sort of slid down the back of the couch and entered her own zone of snoozing, as is fitting for this, our weekend edition of “Let Sleeping Dogs Lie & Napping Cats Nap.”
As Annie kept a firm grip on stretch-and-snooze, Griffin the Big Orange Cat took some time to rehearse. His role in this Halloween production was to be “Big Porch Pumpkin.” It was a role he was born to fill.
And he could fill several other things, too – a big wash tub, a big laundry basket, the backseat of a modern sedan, the seat in a modern office chair. He was as orange as anything sold by the pound at the farmer’s market.
Hambone Jack, known a Hammy, comes from a family tree with both Great Dane and Labrador Retriever, making him, perhaps, a Labradane or a Greatador (and he is greatly adored). For Halloween, Hammy has chosen to approximate a sleeping bat dangling upside down in a bell tower. Here he droops his head and ears and jowls toward the floor from his big green chair while in the firm grip of a good sleep.
All was well in the Halloween house with the eerie tree and the chilly wind outside...
Then, suddenly, there was an odd sound. Baby Jane Doe, a shepherd mix found as an infant in front of a bus stop in Dallas, sprang to her feet, though, at her age, she moves more like her male human so it is not really a spring to the feet, but more of a lurch to the paws. Still, no matter how she became upright, there was something going on outside.
The missus, known for these purposes as Candyspouse Martha, walked to the front door, wondering if we had enough candy, if there would be trick or treaters or if, indeed, the neighborhood association was sending an emissary to ask us to do something about the failed pumpkin patch in the front yard with its unsightly twisting vines and dying blossoms – it flops there as a monument to bad soil and poor agronomy.
So, she opened the door and found two trick-or-treaters, a couple of neighborhood kids dressed as our foster dogs, Wendy the Beagle-Something Mix and Texas Earl the Rottweiler who was dumped in a city park.
Those kids had the costumes down perfectly, so they were rewarded with extra treats. It seemed the right thing to do. How they got their tails to wag – one long, one stubby – in unison was amazing, but these days computers can do anything.
As soon as Candyspouse Martha shut the door, there came a spine-chilling rapping, tapping.
Martha opened the door and there was the Readlarrypowell.com staff impressionist, Inky, the Cocker Laureate of the State of Texas. He quickly gave us his impression of a dedicated young trick-or-treater dressed as Hairy the Pirate rushing into the galley after a long night of trick-or-treating and spotting a buffet table with a big steaming platter of Mom’s Mystical Spellcaster Meatloaf with a side order of Real Scary Beets.
Inky then favored us with a recitation of a Halloween poem created especially for the 2009 holiday. (Warning: He is currently in what he calls “my Alan Ginsberg period” so this poem begins as an homage to Mr. Ginzberg’s most famous poem because, Inky says, its title speaks to him.)
“Howl! I saw the best costumes
of my generation running free
in city streets and crying out
“Trick or Treat” in a time
when our own government
preached meddled against obesity
and railed against trickery on
Wall Street and yet we all
needed money and though
we gathered candy by the
bagfuls needed to lose weight.
Howl. Howl. Howl.
We trick, we treat,
we eat what’s sweet,
We hope not so much that
we can’t see our feet.
(Author’s note: Inky apologizes and explains that a sugar high distorts his assessment of his poetic gifts.)
What a great Halloween treat! Can't wait for the Christmas version:)
Posted by: Maria | October 31, 2009 at 08:08 PM