Hermit Interrupted

Posted on July 5, 2013. Filed under: Humor, language | Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , |

Latin derivative:  hermitus interruptus*

Today’s proverbYou can’t teach an old dog new licks…   tricks…   new tricks.

Your words for the day:

  • broke (3) = as in, “Is it house-broke?”
  • canis familiaris = scientific flim-flam for “domestic dog.”
  • hermit = somebody who chooses to live alone and have little or no social contact (e.g., me)

(Is it just me, or is that a misnomer?  Dogs are tamed wolves, once-, maybe twice-, removed, so, shouldn’t that read “domestic wolf”?)

Did I mention that I am a hermit?  It is not simply that I just up and checked out of social networking.  It is just the way that events, my personal interests, and commitments resolved themselves.  Just call me the film (some might say “scum,” but I hold higher aspirations for myself) floating on top of the stew of life.

Just for fun, here is another definition of HERMIT (MS XP dictionary):  a soft cookie containing molasses, raisins, nuts, and spices.  Change that last word to “spites” and we might have yet another picture of me…   according to me, anyway.

I, personally, have no pets what with being a hermit and all.  Just barely keeping up with myself is quite stressful, and there is just no time for the tedium of picking up after even the likes of a goldfish.

And, yet, in the dark at 3:00 a.m., I trip over 2 canis familiari in the hallway outside MY door, exaggerating my stumbling gait to the porcelain pavilion at the other end…   of the hallway…   a big ‘un and a little ‘un…   dogs, not pavilions.  They are fallout from the life of a very close relative who, retracing the dark path I have previously taken, is reevaluating the meaning of the term “wedded bliss.”  We hermits can, at times, be accommodating to others.

One crab and two dogs.  Could be a fight to the finish.  Odds makers might call the outcome at 50/50, but, I’m hoping to just break even.

In any relationship, communication is of prime importance (e.g., the aforementioned wedded-bliss thing) so, right off we have a big problem:  canis familiari do not speak Latin, English, Russian, nor any other word-based communication code, and, I do not speak bark.  To the best of my knowledge, crabs don’t have much to say, anyhow.  Dumfounded staring is probably not a language either, but, both they and I practice it assiduously.  Judging by the developing impatience from them toward me and me toward them, I don’t think we are communicating effectively.

There are downsides to sharing one’s hermitage, the foremost being that it can no longer be called a hermitage.  Of secondary consideration is that word “sharing.”  One is forced to relive those formative and traumatic years where basic human relation skills were learned (“Don’t be selfish!  Let little Egghead play with your toys.”).

From the dogs’ perspective, they have stumbled into an ogre’s lair.  In their former residence, they slept peacefully in bed with their socially oriented humans.  A hermit sleeps alone, and, when 50 pounds of canine crashes down on his sleeping form, he awakens in the dark amid much vocalizing.  Additionally, the hermitage — really scarce on visitors — will have only one chair that delights the hermit, and the fifty ounce bag of fur tries to claim it whenever he sees it vacant…   sometimes when it is NOT vacant.  But, my oafishness toward their intrusions does not deter them, and, I must resort to keeping my bedroom door shut to preserve my sanctum.  Thus, the night-time stumbling act since the closed door is as close as they can get to me and my chair.

Other downsides to this canine-hermit cohab include the hermit’s unavoidable witnessing of canine self-grooming.  If I had to describe it mathematically, it would be the single word slurr-rrrr-pppp-slurpslurpslurp raised to the power of 10.  That is just the audio; the visuals are equally…   stunning.  Mysterious wet spots on the carpet, sudden applications of wet nose / tongue to surprised skin  surfaces (mine), and…   what is that smell, anyway?

The answer to that is found outside in the back yard.  Dead things, heretofore unknown to me, all over the place.  Frogs.  Birds.  Lizards.  And I hope that is all.  Small dead things hidden under the grass that can’t hide from the 50-pound bloodhound-like nose snuffling like a vacuum cleaner over the grass.  I quit investigating after listening to the crunch of tiny bones being pulverized and found a little bit of the blackened, old cadaver of a frog.  Watching the 50-pounder and the 50-ouncer rolling joyously in something that the Stink Fairy left for them discourages thoughts of closeness.

Bark-bark-bark.  Woof-woof-woof.  BARK-BARK-BARK!**  Oops, I gotta go.  Time to feed the dogs and let them out for a roll.


* I made that up.

** “C’mon, you lazy lout.  Get off you butt and feed us.  We’ve been waiting at least 4 minutes”


Next up:  Do not offend tomorrow

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