Ash Heap Hound (8)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (8)"
   
   Before the Sun ignited its awesome power and life-giving sustenance, I heard something weird by way of my American Foxhound ears; indeed, I first watched as Conner pulled out his phone, his eyes still glued heavenwards; next, he dialed a number, put the call on speaker, and a dude called Doctor Sampson answered.  Then, I listened to the phone call, disturbed and saddened by it all, and for my friend, the lovely Conner, but there was some good news for me in the conversation.  
  
DOC
Up early again, huh Conner?

CONNER
You know me Doc--I never sleep, not really.  Why is all this happening?

DOC
Well, insomnia and sleep paralysis are majorly misunderstood; plus, your severe social phobia conditions are almost agoraphobic-like.  You can't urinate in public, and God forbid you should have to make a bowel movement in public.  And I know, nobody without medical credentials understands this type of personal suffering, and even true physicians don't get it, sometimes.  

CONNER
I'm still reading, compulsively.  It's the only thing that makes me feel normal.  When Kerouac brought ON THE ROAD to his publisher, the publisher told him there were run-on sentences, uncanny rambling, and so forth; next, Kerouac grabbed the manuscript from his publisher's hands, telling the guy that those words were dictated to him by the Holy Spirit Itself.  And I'm writing short stories now too--to calm myself.  Ray Bradbury said people write short stories to have control over a type of environment.

DOC
Just hang in there Conner.  Who cares what people think.  And talk to that girl Zoe you have a crush on.  She may be a real good friend one day.  Okay, come see me tomorrow.  Gotta go.

CONNER
By Doc.  Glares back towards the changing heavens.  

Ash Heap Hound (7)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (7)"
   
   So yeah--I like squatted on every yummy-smelling piece of urinal attraction, but I won't get into my bowel evacuations--will save that for my private DIARY.
   So, my American Foxhound eyes looked through Conner's trailer window, watching as he patiently put down the PLAYBOY magazine and poured himself a cup of coffee; next, I got stealth-like, getting camouflaged by many-a-piece of torn apart automobiles, observing, like Socrates, as Conner exited his trailer, casually walking to the nucleus of the junkyard and glaring up at the glittering heavens above--my sense of keen, canine telepathy telling me that he was trying to somehow inhale the fiery stars.
   My dude Conner was an Ace--a high card, I mean.  No bluffing, no in-the-hole, just downright sexy and calmly cool with his sojourning circumstance of being besmirched by poverty, which had sweetly, and with Divine Intent, placed him next to me in an abyss of muscle cars and such.
   But I couldn't watch his caffeine fed stare at the big neon glitter all night, for the daystar was getting ready to rise, and my transformation back into Zoe (the human girl) was pretty weird.  Like a burst of corporeal stardust, that unearthly, yet so tangibly physical, like a morphing of mystical magic--if ya wanna use the term magic, though that upsets some people.  But know:  There are no dark incantations in my soul-like essence of energy, only a dog's sense of love and loyalty.   

Ash Heap Hound (6)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (6)"
   
   The Full Sturgeon Moon had become ignited aglow, like a spherical piece of sparkly cheese; moreover, I became a freaking American Foxhound--and yes, I'll keep throwing in the Beagle jokes, but like I've mentioned in the past of this haunted past, I liked Snoopy, and no birds hued with the shimmer of yellow floated by during the midnight hours.
   My nose was swift to scent.  I knew when and where to pee; plus, evacuate my doggy bowels.  I urinated on the tire of a 1987 Mustang GT, armed with the famous Five Liter--they refer to it on the streets as simply:  "The 5.0."
   Too, 1987 was the first year that Mustangs got across the board fuel injection on those behemoth small blocks, full of towering power.
   Anyway, on four paws I sauntered over to Conner's trailer.  He was reading a modern PLAYBOY magazine--they have clothes on the girls now--so it was cool  

JackBurtonPorkchopExpress

Ash Heap Hound (5)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (5)"
   
   I was fascinated during the wane of Luna, when all was normal, with no hound-like elasticity.  Yup, even read old copies of JUSTICE LEAGUE, thinking about Elongated Man, and how he drank that Gingo juice to give him his elongating powers.  And Plastic Man--I prefer in the flesh, not in the plastic; still, I understood why some dirty chicks dug him way back in the 1980's, when his variety show, of sorts, was on.
   So, I didn't stress, though my nose was sensitive to all the vandalizing vermin scurrying around my favorite junkyard.  But Conner came into my trailer with some cheap wine and a block of cheese.  I smartly asked:  "What, no crackers?"
   Then, felt like a fool for my competitive comedy; nevertheless, Conner was laid back, suave, and cool; plus, could use a wrench, and it was nice to have a nice friend.  Maybe one day--even more, like love would blossom.  A girl can only hope; moreover, Conner didn't grunt at the butcher in the meat section at the grocery market, like most guys do when scoping New York Strip--we shopped together at PIGGLY WIGGLY, and he was nothing but couth.  

Ash Heap Hound (4)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (4)"
   
   So me:  Zoe--I was like unto an American Foxhound when the Moon was waxing full.  Kind, loyal, a great family companion, yet I still wore a battery on my shoulder, always daring you to knock it off, and I guess that's cause I kinda looked like a Beagle, but hey--Snoopy was cool, and NO!!!  I'm not friends with any yellow birds.
   Anyway, that's my bizarrely strange secret.  But, about Conner--it was no secret.  I had a thing for him ever since he took his mighty wrench and knocked that creep in the mouth at the junkyard who was trying to up-skirt me with a Smart Phone's camera.  All kinda weirdos come to the royal junkyard, and not weird like me, but malevolent.  Just plain nasty thugs--into violence and shit; anyway, I mustered up my toxic cool and went to talk to Conner, him underneath the 1969 Mustang with the small but fiery 302 block--I probed:  "What are you doing my man?"  Then, I figured I sounded too butch, but he was cool, responding:  "Madame, I'm checking on the water pump."
   Just to get verbal confirmation from him that I was alive, and that he wasn't a dream--well, it was heartwarming.  

Ash Heap Hound (3)

   
   "Ash Heap Hound (3)"
   
Okay--me:  Zoe,
And my firm thighs aren't doughy;
Still, I once told my mother that her thighs appeared as cookie dough with a sloppy stir;
Thus, the shame resonates, and she's a living ghost--being free, like energized myrrh.

So, I sing:
I'm a red-ribbon winner, cause life is a race;
I'll get my Blue Ribbon one day!!!

   Then, I spotted Conner.  So lean and damned determined, working on replacing the carburetor on his 1969 Mustang with a factory hood induction and a 302 block--swift out of the hole.
   His head of curly-chestnut hair beyond being feathered, looking like a Hollywood perm, yet so tangible and real.  Couldn't take my stare away from his physical presence.  And he was awesomely affable.  Very much so.  Hence, why shouldn't I crush on him?