Cold Island Daddy

by brightonsauce

Cold Island Daddy

 

[WORKSHOP SERIES: two months ago I attempted a tribute write to my nonagenarian partner* Prospero.  I kind of failed, and these tattered remnants are all that remains.  I was very fed up, because I had face-planted the wall of…well, y’know the feeling, author. I shall re-visit my project, like all the others.  As things stand, ending might be effective, I don’t really know?]

Twenty three years I lived in the cabin.

Never hungry before, not like this time. I lick my fist, chew the knuckle, and  can’t help it.  I blame Blackie, stupid dog chased our only sheep, the yew, and the two tiny lambs skittered over cliff side.  If sheep had wings I’d shoot them all out the sky, but fact makes no difference to supper time tonight.  No.

Maybe coastguard might call, give me an update on the situation?

Blackie rests fireside, not a care in the world in those eyes of his. But I know –  dog would eat me if I sat still for long enough.  Won’t be long, doggie.  I wiggle my toes.

‘I am watching you,’ I say.

‘I got whisky,’ I say also.  We share everything.

‘Drink your whisky, Blackie.’

‘Need to get outside, again, hunt the way we used to.’ I say.

Takes an age to get out of my chair, find my weapon where I left it, if I could remember where I left it.

Sheepskin coat will do for me, my bowie knife will have to do. Flippers hang over my shoulder, tied together for when we get up close, for stealth hunting sea lizard, wolverine, coastal shrews roasted on a stick, doggie at my side here in Bermuda Alaska.

‘Let’s go Blackie,’

He’s a night dog, for sure.  I slam the door, crust of snow misses me, hits the dog, he yelps.

‘Come on dick face,’

That’s me talking.  He looks up, canines exposed a moment.

‘Don’t look like that, get meat, doggie,’ I command.

I ruffle his fur, he growls at my elbow.  A best friend till I lost the sheep, fucking mutt is critical on pathways.  I try to bring him round to my ways of thinking, but sometimes he busts at temple, his own leader, not a coward. I regret tantrum on the hillside.

You go, you go up ahead.’ I say.

He barks, then wags his wild ways, I break into walking pace.

‘What you smell, Blackie?  Is it something good, like red flesh of momma, pink innards, your squirrel, remember your squirrel, boy? Rip the carcass, boy, suck hot blood. It would be lovely to share, heh, heh’ I say, carried away in my chasing, in my emotion, and starving hungry.

We cross the brow of the hill.

My oh my, my own sheep – bathing here in the cold lagoon [and under moonlight]. We only need to wade waist deep, lasso the yew, drag her home, [the] others will follow.

Standing in the water, bottle in one hand, I drop the lasso, but holler anyways,

‘Come on sheep, come back to Daddy.’

And a rumble, an irritation, a sound from history greets my ears, teeth are clamped upon my inner thigh.

‘Ahh,  aah, Blackie, not the femoral artery, not again boy,’ I cry but my dog is hungry and like Tuesday’s confrontation I will never understand children, where was I with [my] memoir..?

 

😉

 

…*

not that sort of partner, I am not an old woman.

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