Photo by Phyllis Stokes
By Bill Stokes
Kickass, the doorstop dog, passes long the word that the keeper and Phyllis are reentering the chaotic real world at the end of their running away for five days to the peace and tranquility of a tiny sand country lake, too small for motors or loons.
It was a wonderfully quiet interlude, absent of television, replete with myriad birds and a sassy fish that splashed its arrogance out by the lily-pads whenever the keeper and Phyllis occupied the rocker swing down by the lake.
“Do not be a smartass fish,” the keeper warned, but the fish persisted, and so the keeper broke out his flyrod and caught the 12-inch bass, releasing it with a minor hook wound and after giving it a brief lecture as to the risks involved in messing with the keeper if your brain is only the size of a pea; the keeper’s brain, of course, being much larger, think grapefruit or muskmelon.
As they hop back on the circus train of contemporary borderline insanity, the keeper and Phyllis will tell each other that at least for five days during the height of the absurdity, they knew peace and quiet, and enjoyed a communication of sorts with a pea-brained fish.
Photo by Bill Stokes