Delta40
01-20-2009, 02:21 AM
:)
Mr Bentham sat on the patio, tea in one hand, paper in the other and sipped delicately. He curled his lip in disdain. Either the tea had not brewed long enough or the quality of the news had let him down once again. It was not so much a matter of lack of detail, which irritated him as whether the news was adequately miserable to suit his morbid taste. These days, the paper consisted entirely of lifestyle sections, real estate and entertainment, leaving in his opinion little room for the more important stuff like, well, news and sensational bad news at that.
It was a beautiful morning and he noted that already many people were out and about. In the back of his mind, he registered, traffic, birds singing, laughter and barking. He sighed wistfully and sipped more tea. It was exactly 12 months today since his wife Esther passed away. Alzheimer’s had taken her in a bubble of what he prayed was blissful ignorance. Toward the end, he had held the hand of the woman he loved and desperately searched every blessed feature of her worn face for a sign, but she remained blank. He had to come to terms with the idea that her soul had long moved on and finally endeavoured to find solace in her release. A year later, he was bitter and almost resentful towards Esther for leaving him to cope without her. Now Mr Bentham occupied a patch of mere existence rather than living. Routines such as Sunday breakfast on the patio helped maintain a sense of normality.
The life of suburbia continued around him. Twittering birds and incessant barking penetrated his thoughts as he reminisced over his garden. Since Esther had gone, he had lost interest in it. The place was no longer a home. What was it about a woman’s touch, he pondered. Mr Bentham kept the house in order, yet somehow it was completely devoid of atmosphere. It was a shell of its former self, like Esther was when she died. The increase in background noise interrupted these sad musings. Suburbia was not as peaceful as one might think. Damn it, what was that infernal racquet? The old man hoisted himself from the creaking cane chair, or was it his bones, he could not tell and wandered around to the front of the house to see what the distraction was.
In the front yard, he found to his surprise and annoyance a little pup yapping its head off. It was white with black patches, an inkblot stain over his left eye, tongue hanging out as if its mouth could not possibly accommodate it all. A feisty little fellow, he barked louder as Mr Bentham neared him. It even took steps to attack but his paws got tangled in the clumsy attempt and before the dog knew it, he was bottom up, chin down at the feet of the old man, who considered the pup a bit longer before promptly picking him up by the scruff and dumping him unceremoniously on the sidewalk. The pup, one floppy felt ear over his eye, bristled in earnest as if to say ‘And don’t you forget it!’, then scampered down the street. Mr Bentham returned to the patio and perused the newspaper columns.
The following day, on arriving back from the butcher, there was a familiar little shape in the front yard. The patched pup was employed in the furious task of digging alongside his rose bushes. Mr Bentham grimaced. As he walked to his verandah, the dog paid him no heed whatsoever, so absorbed was he in his industry. The dogs little bottom and tail wiggled away comically as showers of earth sprayed across the air. ‘Impudent thing’, thought Mr Bentham and wondered how the dog got into his front yard in the first place. ‘Oi!’ he called and the cheeky mutt briefly popped his head up to reveal a mucky snout. He greeted the old man with a feisty round of yapping then returned to the task in hand. Ridiculous, he thought and put his meat down and went over to the dog and prepared to toss the blighter as far as possible over his fence. He had no time for pests, especially ones that dug his garden up. Esther had loved roses he thought emotionally. However, he underestimated the agility of the pup for no sooner had he reached it than the mutt sprung from its hole and darted between his legs. Mr Bentham was simply not quick enough in age or health to compete with such maneuvers and lost his balance as he twisted awkwardly and found himself chin down bottom up at the pup’s feet. His dignity was rescued by a soft, wet, pink tongue, which immediately went to work on Mr Bentham’s face. In between these sloppy licks, a panting enthusiastic breath warmed him and the old man caught glimpses of a vigorous windscreen wiper tail.
‘I reckon this is for yesterday, eh boy?’
The pup yapped back, its inkblot stained face at ground level with his. Just as Mr Bentham began to soften, the dog suddenly nipped the old man’s nose then bolted to the verandah where lay some idle meat. Under the helpless gaze of Mr Bentham, the pup snaffled the grand prize. Scotch fillet and dog exited through the open gate. No yapping this time but Mr Bentham felt the little brute had told him once again, ‘And don’t you forget it!’ as he pranced nonchalantly away.
The old man wondered if he was set up. Steak wasn’t cheap and Mr Bentham was still reeling from the shock that he’d been had good and proper by a little mongrel. That evening, he dined off sausages and beans on toast, but he did not mind as much as he thought. Mr Bentham, although somewhat put out, awarded the dog points for courage and for the first time in a long while, laughed about the funny side of life.
All week, Mr Bentham had what could be called run ins with the patched dog who inexplicably took it upon himself to enter under the fence, dig up the old man’s garden, leave gifts of an offensive nature and finally just stand there looking gutsy and cute at the same time. Mr Bentham retaliated by throwing his morning paper, shouting abuse at the dog, even turning the hose on the intruder. All of which did not deter the pup, who seemed to enjoy the attention of the old man by persistently returning each morning for more. Mr Bentham inexplicably acquired a renewed interest in his garden and got to work on the damage done by pruning Esther’s rose bushes, trimming the lawn and weeding, all while keeping a sharp lookout for the dog.
On the following Sunday as he ate his bacon and egg on the back patio, he heard a familiar sound. Without admitting it, the old man was actually quite pleased to hear the pup and he rose from the creaky chair with more haste than usual. There in his front yard, oversized tongue slapping about, stood the dog, yapping with all the hostility that a little pup can muster. This morning though Mr Bentham was armed with something different. It was not a rolled up paper. He put down on his verandah his breakfast plate and waited. The dog raced to the offering and ate with all the enthusiasm that pups will and Mr Bentham stroked the soft felt fur of the patched dog as it gulped down each mouthful.
‘Well, I reckon you’ve earned this you little beggar. Don’t choke now. Take it easy. Good boy.’
Under his soothing voice and gentle hand, the pup relaxed a little and when he had lapped up every bit of egg yolk, Mr Bentham picked him up.
‘What an appetite you have, eh’.
Suddenly, the bitter old man had an urge to tickle the dog’s belly. He carried him around the back lest he was seen and there on the patio, he cradled the pup in his arms like a baby and tickled the dog to his hearts delight. The dog wriggled fruitlessly against his captor, tail wagging, gnashing his teeth happily.
‘You’re alright little Patches’ chuckled Mr Bentham.
The floppy eared dog looked very content with this name and so for the moment was Mr Bentham. As his finger got mercifully gnawed, he realized Patches was just what he needed.
After this event, they became firm friends for years to come. Mr Bentham continued his routine of reading the paper after his Sunday breakfast in the hope of finding morbid news and when frustrated, which was often, found a most sympathetic ear as he grumbled about the shortfalls of journalism. Somehow, the dogs’ presence transformed his house back into a home, which in turn made Mr Bentham very happy. The greatest gift they both shared however was companionship. Because of his true and loyal friend, Mr Bentham believed that everything would be all right and to his surprise found since the loss of his wife Esther, that he was actually content; not all the time, of course. That would not be reasonable since no one person can be said to experience something continually. It is fair to say, however, in his twilight years, through the arrival of his trusty friend, Mr Bentham was most fortunate to know well that delicious warm feeling of contentment – but only in patches!
Mr Bentham sat on the patio, tea in one hand, paper in the other and sipped delicately. He curled his lip in disdain. Either the tea had not brewed long enough or the quality of the news had let him down once again. It was not so much a matter of lack of detail, which irritated him as whether the news was adequately miserable to suit his morbid taste. These days, the paper consisted entirely of lifestyle sections, real estate and entertainment, leaving in his opinion little room for the more important stuff like, well, news and sensational bad news at that.
It was a beautiful morning and he noted that already many people were out and about. In the back of his mind, he registered, traffic, birds singing, laughter and barking. He sighed wistfully and sipped more tea. It was exactly 12 months today since his wife Esther passed away. Alzheimer’s had taken her in a bubble of what he prayed was blissful ignorance. Toward the end, he had held the hand of the woman he loved and desperately searched every blessed feature of her worn face for a sign, but she remained blank. He had to come to terms with the idea that her soul had long moved on and finally endeavoured to find solace in her release. A year later, he was bitter and almost resentful towards Esther for leaving him to cope without her. Now Mr Bentham occupied a patch of mere existence rather than living. Routines such as Sunday breakfast on the patio helped maintain a sense of normality.
The life of suburbia continued around him. Twittering birds and incessant barking penetrated his thoughts as he reminisced over his garden. Since Esther had gone, he had lost interest in it. The place was no longer a home. What was it about a woman’s touch, he pondered. Mr Bentham kept the house in order, yet somehow it was completely devoid of atmosphere. It was a shell of its former self, like Esther was when she died. The increase in background noise interrupted these sad musings. Suburbia was not as peaceful as one might think. Damn it, what was that infernal racquet? The old man hoisted himself from the creaking cane chair, or was it his bones, he could not tell and wandered around to the front of the house to see what the distraction was.
In the front yard, he found to his surprise and annoyance a little pup yapping its head off. It was white with black patches, an inkblot stain over his left eye, tongue hanging out as if its mouth could not possibly accommodate it all. A feisty little fellow, he barked louder as Mr Bentham neared him. It even took steps to attack but his paws got tangled in the clumsy attempt and before the dog knew it, he was bottom up, chin down at the feet of the old man, who considered the pup a bit longer before promptly picking him up by the scruff and dumping him unceremoniously on the sidewalk. The pup, one floppy felt ear over his eye, bristled in earnest as if to say ‘And don’t you forget it!’, then scampered down the street. Mr Bentham returned to the patio and perused the newspaper columns.
The following day, on arriving back from the butcher, there was a familiar little shape in the front yard. The patched pup was employed in the furious task of digging alongside his rose bushes. Mr Bentham grimaced. As he walked to his verandah, the dog paid him no heed whatsoever, so absorbed was he in his industry. The dogs little bottom and tail wiggled away comically as showers of earth sprayed across the air. ‘Impudent thing’, thought Mr Bentham and wondered how the dog got into his front yard in the first place. ‘Oi!’ he called and the cheeky mutt briefly popped his head up to reveal a mucky snout. He greeted the old man with a feisty round of yapping then returned to the task in hand. Ridiculous, he thought and put his meat down and went over to the dog and prepared to toss the blighter as far as possible over his fence. He had no time for pests, especially ones that dug his garden up. Esther had loved roses he thought emotionally. However, he underestimated the agility of the pup for no sooner had he reached it than the mutt sprung from its hole and darted between his legs. Mr Bentham was simply not quick enough in age or health to compete with such maneuvers and lost his balance as he twisted awkwardly and found himself chin down bottom up at the pup’s feet. His dignity was rescued by a soft, wet, pink tongue, which immediately went to work on Mr Bentham’s face. In between these sloppy licks, a panting enthusiastic breath warmed him and the old man caught glimpses of a vigorous windscreen wiper tail.
‘I reckon this is for yesterday, eh boy?’
The pup yapped back, its inkblot stained face at ground level with his. Just as Mr Bentham began to soften, the dog suddenly nipped the old man’s nose then bolted to the verandah where lay some idle meat. Under the helpless gaze of Mr Bentham, the pup snaffled the grand prize. Scotch fillet and dog exited through the open gate. No yapping this time but Mr Bentham felt the little brute had told him once again, ‘And don’t you forget it!’ as he pranced nonchalantly away.
The old man wondered if he was set up. Steak wasn’t cheap and Mr Bentham was still reeling from the shock that he’d been had good and proper by a little mongrel. That evening, he dined off sausages and beans on toast, but he did not mind as much as he thought. Mr Bentham, although somewhat put out, awarded the dog points for courage and for the first time in a long while, laughed about the funny side of life.
All week, Mr Bentham had what could be called run ins with the patched dog who inexplicably took it upon himself to enter under the fence, dig up the old man’s garden, leave gifts of an offensive nature and finally just stand there looking gutsy and cute at the same time. Mr Bentham retaliated by throwing his morning paper, shouting abuse at the dog, even turning the hose on the intruder. All of which did not deter the pup, who seemed to enjoy the attention of the old man by persistently returning each morning for more. Mr Bentham inexplicably acquired a renewed interest in his garden and got to work on the damage done by pruning Esther’s rose bushes, trimming the lawn and weeding, all while keeping a sharp lookout for the dog.
On the following Sunday as he ate his bacon and egg on the back patio, he heard a familiar sound. Without admitting it, the old man was actually quite pleased to hear the pup and he rose from the creaky chair with more haste than usual. There in his front yard, oversized tongue slapping about, stood the dog, yapping with all the hostility that a little pup can muster. This morning though Mr Bentham was armed with something different. It was not a rolled up paper. He put down on his verandah his breakfast plate and waited. The dog raced to the offering and ate with all the enthusiasm that pups will and Mr Bentham stroked the soft felt fur of the patched dog as it gulped down each mouthful.
‘Well, I reckon you’ve earned this you little beggar. Don’t choke now. Take it easy. Good boy.’
Under his soothing voice and gentle hand, the pup relaxed a little and when he had lapped up every bit of egg yolk, Mr Bentham picked him up.
‘What an appetite you have, eh’.
Suddenly, the bitter old man had an urge to tickle the dog’s belly. He carried him around the back lest he was seen and there on the patio, he cradled the pup in his arms like a baby and tickled the dog to his hearts delight. The dog wriggled fruitlessly against his captor, tail wagging, gnashing his teeth happily.
‘You’re alright little Patches’ chuckled Mr Bentham.
The floppy eared dog looked very content with this name and so for the moment was Mr Bentham. As his finger got mercifully gnawed, he realized Patches was just what he needed.
After this event, they became firm friends for years to come. Mr Bentham continued his routine of reading the paper after his Sunday breakfast in the hope of finding morbid news and when frustrated, which was often, found a most sympathetic ear as he grumbled about the shortfalls of journalism. Somehow, the dogs’ presence transformed his house back into a home, which in turn made Mr Bentham very happy. The greatest gift they both shared however was companionship. Because of his true and loyal friend, Mr Bentham believed that everything would be all right and to his surprise found since the loss of his wife Esther, that he was actually content; not all the time, of course. That would not be reasonable since no one person can be said to experience something continually. It is fair to say, however, in his twilight years, through the arrival of his trusty friend, Mr Bentham was most fortunate to know well that delicious warm feeling of contentment – but only in patches!