Zombie, MN Read online

  Zombie, MN

  by C-n-R Kottke

  Copyright 2014 R.J. Kottke and Chad Kottke

  Cover Photo and Design

  Photos and Sketches 2014 Chad and R.J. Kottke

  Kindle Edition 2014

  All rights reserved. This book is protected by copyright. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without written permission of the authors. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the authors’ imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Scripture quotations are taken from The Holy Bible, King James Version, expect for 1 Thessalonians 5:21, which is taken from The Holy Bible, New King James Version®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. All rights reserved.

  Test all things; hold fast what is good.

  1 Thessalonians 5:21

  Day 1: Safety and Welfare Check

  6:00 ante meridiem

  I can’t believe it. I refuse to believe it. How dare they? How dare they make a decision like this without even consulting me? Don’t they know that a true democracy starts at home, especially when a dog is involved?

  So how did I find out that we were moving you ask? I'll tell you how. I happened to catch a brief glimpse of my squeaky cat in the garbage can, just waiting to be hauled away with the rest of the morning's trash.

  I naturally panicked when I saw Frederick helplessly stuffed amongst last night's leftovers. The only thing that stopped me from running outside to make his rescue was my nemesis – the demented garbage man who makes a habit of tormenting me whenever I happen to be in the yard during garbage day. On more than one occasion he has thrown indigestible, old fermented produce at me. He never throws anything good like deliciously ripened tuna mixed in hollandaise sauce. No, it's always fare that disagrees with my refined palate. Ces’t horrible!

  Because of my past experiences with him, I have come to watch for him days before he arrives. No more will he catch me unawares and throw a slimy black banana peel at me. You know the old saying – fool me once shame on you, fool me twice, shame on you! No sir! That will never happen again because…

  “Stop Bippy,” I told myself, “You must not digress. Steady yourself and get back to the matter at hand.” (Don’t worry – I’m not wonky. I only talk to myself because my therapist suggested I do so. This self-talk is supposed to help me focus. Something Skinnerian I’m told.)

  I immediately went to look for the guy and girl to demand an explanation about Frederick. That’s when I heard them quietly talking about how the guy’s sabbatical was going to lead us away from our home in Chicago to the small quintessential northern Minnesota town that he originated from. Apparently so he could study and conduct his “research”.

  The guy was so insensitive about the whole matter, “Bippy will adjust fine just as long as we don't forget to bring Jody. Minnesota folks are kinda different, but they're not too bad. Besides, since you're taking the year off, you can spend more time with him and help him to get used to his new home. Maybe you can wean him off his nervous pills.”

  Much to her credit, the girl did look a little unsure until the guy added that study, research, and pursuing scholarly agendas would be of value for the university and would benefit future students. Blah, blah, blah. Whatever!

  My immediate questions were why do we need to move to Minnesota to do all that and where was Jody, my stuffed hedgehog. I felt a nervous spell coming on. I darted from room to room until I found her – next to some boxes and suitcases stacked in the guest room. Frederick didn’t make the cut, but there was no way that Jody was going to be left behind.

  7:45 ante meridiem

  Although the guy is a professor of psychology at the university, he has the most difficult time reading a map. The girl, an associate professor of social work at the same university, does no better. You would think that between the two of them, they could figure out that we were going the wrong way. If it wasn’t for the fact that I was buckled up in the back seat with my safety harness, I would have been the most qualified candidate to navigate. Unfortunately, it took getting lost in a very “socio-economically challenged” neighborhood (the guy's fault) and some backseat flatulence (my fault) to make them finally stop and ask for some directions. Adieu Chicago. Until me meet again.

  8:52 ante meridiem

  I have no idea why the guy is going on about the “gross lack of packing peanuts.” Apparently during the packing process, he couldn't buy enough to pack all the boxes, so he and the girl had to use old bath towels and his striped gym socks to stuff in between all the fragile stuff. Now I understand the situation – ditch Frederick but bring the bobeche. Ce n'est pas drôle!

  And don't get me started on the lack of stimulating dialogue. How is it that someone can talk about packing peanuts for so long? The girl, obviously drawn into the “dilemma,” is now trying to explore the guy's emotional reaction to not finding enough of those pink poof balls to stuff in between his delicates. Is this now what amounts to conversation? How many more hours will I have to endure their incessant chattering? I wish I had brought my copy of Les Jours De L'Automne Pres de La Mer. That way I could tune them out with the sweet patter of prose.

  11:30 ante meridiem

  My stomach is beginning to growl and I think Jody needs to be let out for a bathroom break. Despite my attempts to stare down the guy through the rear view mirror, he is ignoring me. “We need to get through the lunch traffic,” he tells the girl who is also producing loud stomach noises.

  2:55 post meridiem

  We finally stopped for lunch. As the girl opened my can of food, she was nervously trying to dispel any fear that I might have of Minnesota dog food tasting different than Chicago-style dog food. I'll be the judge of that! I am half tempted to turn up my nose. It's certainly not my fault that my approved dog food got packed away in a box that cannot currently be reached since it is on the bottom of all the other boxes. Packing amateurs. What am I to do with them?

  Despite the fact that the can from the Minneapolis pet store reads Salmon Cheddar Bisque, I am almost certain that it will not taste like my Chicago Cheddar Salmon Bisque. One of them should offer to give me their roast beef sandwich.

  5:00 post meridiem

  A checkpoint? In the middle of nowhere? How utterly absurd. How come there was no checkpoint near the pet store where the guy and girl bought me that inferior can of bisque? Perhaps I could have been spared that culinary disaster that was forced upon me.

  The guy pulled the vehicle over and gave his friendliest smile and wave to the men in uniform. The girl followed suit. Me? I simply asked by what authority were they doing this, but apparently all they heard me saying was “Bark, bark,” because no one answered my question.

  After a cursory search of the car and a look at the guy and girl’s identification, not to mention my dog tags, a stern looking nurse in black scrubs held out several long swabs. “We're also taking DNA samples,” she explained, not looking the least bit sorry.

  They even requested one from me and they finally got it; that is, after I chewed and swallowed the cotton off the first two swabs. “He's not so bright,” the police officer in the mirrored sunglasses joked with the guy. Shows what little he knows. I only did that to cleverly disguise the fact that I was sitting on Jody. There was no way they were getting any DNA from her.

  As we waited to get waived through, a black SUV drove slowly by, and I instantly took note of the fact that it did n
ot have to stop at the checkpoint like the rest of us peons. Since the back window was open, (the girl had opened it after it became apparent that the bisque was not settling well with my gastrointestinal tract), I stuck my head out and spied a man in a black suit in the passenger’s seat. He was also wearing mirrored sunglasses, but I could instinctively tell that we made eye contact. When he finally looked away and focused his attention back to the road, I ran to my journal and made a quick sketch. Somehow I knew that I would need to remember his face.

  5:30 post meridiem

  We made it past the checkpoint with all our limbs intact and only a little less saliva than we had started with. The guy jabbered about “the new normal” in the age of increased security. The girl went on about the emotional side of it all, which only amounted to more jabbering on her part. If it wasn't for all the black SUVs roaring by in both directions, I would have taken a nap. As circumstances dictated, I turned to grooming Jody instead.

  6:45 post meridiem

  We turned off the main highway and went down the road a ways until we turned left onto a quiet residential street. Our rental turned out to be a small ivory-colored house with dormer windows on the upper floor. The guy raved about how great it would be to spend the summer in a 1940s era house, but I was not at all amused. One look at it told me that it was clearly not large enough. How was I to deal with the guy and girl for a whole year in such a small dwelling?

  The guy and the girl popped out of the vehicle and while the guy went to retrieve the house keys from under the front door mat, the girl opened my door and said, “This is your new home for the whole next year Bippy!” I grabbed Jody and went immediately about inspecting the front yard. As the guy opened the front door, he gushed, “Isn't it great that you can just leave the keys under the mat? How much safer can that be? That's small-town USA for you.”

  After I did a thorough look over in the front yard, I joined the guy and girl inside. The first thing I noticed was that the old wood floors looked very shiny. Hopefully my distress about this was apparent. How was I to walk across such a slippery surface? The narrow stairs that led up to the upper floor was also encased in wood, and it looked even shinier than the wood downstairs. My toenails had gotten a little long and I worried that the length might make me prone to dangerous slippage on the floor.

  Obviously, the guy and girl ignored my pleading looks because they said, “Come on Bippy, let's have a look around!” After a considerable amount of coaxing and a bite of the girl's left over roast beef sandwich, I took a small step off the large rectangular rug in the entry way. “Careful, careful,” I coached myself, “No sense in skidding across the floor. It will only aggravate my sciatica.”

  The house was simple – bathroom, kitchen, dining room on the first floor. The door to the basement was near the dining room and after the guy finally got the door knob to function, he flipped on the light and we headed downstairs to have a look around.

  A dark damp smell immediately met us, causing me great concern. Should we get an air purifier? I made sure to step gingerly as I made my way down the creaky old stairs. I could hear the steady trickle of water from somewhere deep within what I poetically termed, “The Dungeon.”

  The guy and girl only went about halfway down before they saw that there was about an inch of water on the basement floor. “Oh dear,” was all that the girl said. The guy tried to decipher where the trickle was coming from but after some intense scrutiny gave up, “Oh well, I guess we won't be coming down here much.” I shuddered at the thought of what type of moldy ring the water would leave on the basement wall.

  We turned and headed back up the stairs. Because the lighting was very insufficient, I did not notice until it was too late, that a large hairy spider ran across my foot. I screeched and pushed my way in between the two slow pokes. Unable to get the image of the hairy spider out of my mind, I continued to run and made it all the way up to the second floor even though the wood was as slippery as organic black-strap molasses, which is my favorite kind by the way.

  The guy and the girl ran up too, just to make sure I was unscathed. They found me hiding behind one of the two bedroom doors. It was a good thing that the upstairs was carpeted or I would have ended up colliding into the small closet at the top of the landing. “See, I knew he'd do good on the wood floors downstairs,” the guy affirmed. He turned to me, “Bippy, we'll make you a real dog yet.” I narrowed my eyes as I had my doubts. Real dogs don't get to eat truffles.

  Day 2: Neighbors

  8:30 ante meridiem

  My routine has been thrown in complete and utter disarray. Don't get me wrong, I am willing to be a good citizen and do my part to get back on “schedule” but because of a certain matter at hand, I am having great difficulty in doing so. You see, the guy and girl somehow managed to bring only one of my three pillows here to Minnesota. My favorite pillow, the Matterhorn, is still tucked away in the loft where the guy and girl's library is located, and another, the Sustain-a-Mat, is in their office.

  Now, because of their total lack of foresight and consideration, I have to bear the inconvenience of having my sole pillow, appropriately named the Ergo-Rock, moved from the bedroom to the office and vice versa. I can only recline where they think I should recline. From what I gathered from the girl's textbook on socio-economic discrepancies in the U.S, I was being treated like the “help” and thus being socially discriminated against.

  What will become of me this summer if I must lounge on only one pillow? I know what must be done. I must away to Chicago and bring back my favorite pillow, the one that is angora lined. Once I take hold of it, I will abscond and...

  Wait. What is that I hear down in the living room? I can't believe she's doing it. I can hear the girl getting it set up. “My fur baby’s playpen,” she affectionately cooed as she threw in my merino-lined blanket. I closed my eyes and counted to ten. The playpen – my enemy and the bane of my creative existence since I was a young pup is here, but my favorite pillow was left behind.

  That's it. I refuse. I absolutely refuse to be put in my playpen during one of my nervous attacks. If I can't have my favorite pillow with me, I will not be silenced while I'm having one of my episodes.

  8:45 ante meridiem

  I am writing this entry from my playpen. The girl put me here after I decided to drag the Ergo-Rock down the stairs in protest. As I sit here for my “time out,” I ponder the guy and girl.

  The main problem with the guy is his legs. They’re way too long. There is no way it is possible to do something without being caught because he can see from way up high. The problem with the girl on the other hand, is that she’s always watching me, making sure that the pills are working. Separate, they’re manageable, but together, they can be well-nigh intolerable.

  I’ve graced their presence for five years. Have they at all thanked me? Not yet. What do they do instead? They forget my favorite pillow and when I bring their attention to their inconsiderate behavior, they put me in my own personal holding cell. I will be waiting for their apology.

  If you, guy and girl, invade my privacy and read this journal, acceptable gifts of apology include Miss Merrit's Sassy Cow Ears or Baltic Sea Facial Scrub, with a proper set of loofah sponges. (You’re so uncouth you’d use a wash cloth!)

  9:30 ante meridiem

  Score! Out of the playpen!

  11:00 ante meridiem

  Ellen Margaret. That's what the old white haired neighbor lady said her name was. I think I will call her E.M, which is much easier on the hard palate since it’s a bilabial affricative fricative. That's Linguistics 101.

  Somehow, the girl managed to see E.M. through the delicate laced window treatments stationed at our front door, holding something in her hands. E.M. had been standing there for awhile, with a blank look on her face. I know this because I saw her earlier when I happened to walk by the window. I intended to bark out a greeting but at that exact moment, I spied that same hairy spider creeping across the floor, indelibly making its way t
owards me. I did the only thing a rational dog could do; I ran upstairs to recuperate on my pillow.

  A whole hour had passed before the girl finally noticed her. This whole ordeal could have resulted in one big tragedy, especially since E.M. came bearing snacks. Thank goodness, the girl saw her before the cookies became inedible.

  The cookies. They were still on the cookie sheet, uncooked and gooey. Did E.M. forget to put them in the oven? The guy and girl feigned unawareness about the awkwardness of the situation. The girl, a textbook social worker, took the cookie sheet from E.M. pretending all the while that nothing was the matter and hastily set them to bake in the oven. She had to quickly sift through one of her cookbooks to figure out the baking temperature. This would not have happened if she made me cookies on a more regular basis.

  The guy dribbled on about the warm weather and humidity. E.M. though, seemed primarily interested in her lawn, so much so, that's all she conversed about for the next three hours. The coffee had been drank, the cookies eaten, but yet, she would not stop discoursing about mowing, mulching, dandelions, and the detriment of grubs in the life of a healthy lawn.

  I noticed a strange smell only after the cookies had been consumed. The warm chocolate-chip smell was replaced by a subtle, but stiff, chemical one. I discreetly followed my nose and found myself very near to E.M. The smell gradually filled the small dining room but no one mentioned it. I chalked it up to old lady smells.

  The guy, a bit of a politician due to his position at the university, stood to cue E.M. that it was time to leave. When that didn't work, the girl also stood, went around the large dining room table, helped E.M. to stand, and guided her to the front door. E.M. continued talking about her lawn, even after she was bid goodbye and the front door closed on her. “Well that was a pleasant visit,” the girl remarked. The guy agreed, “Minnesota nice – it's not just a slogan.” They went upstairs and continued to unpack.