Prelude To The Seal Games

I slip out of the sparkly night into the new digs. Memories of those cold weeks after Skrimpf burnt down our home drift through me, making me shiver over more than the frost on the stoop. Fire Chief Brigsby said there was rubber burnt in the oven. I think Skrimpf's mind said, "boring old chicken fingers," and his body responded with "broiled rubber chicken." The guy is so wacky. We tracked him down at old Alexa's double-wide modeling nothing but his "Hi, You'll Do" cloth. Deplorable.

Focus. McAnything is determined to ruin me. I need to charge up for more practice in the morning.

Last year's Chihuahua Championship didn't pan out so well. Tomorrow evening, its the Lion Match. First off, Steve's nefarious cousin Dwayne has been poking around in the seal kennels. I've caught him three times trying to sneak in his goo. He has this vivid imagination, and spends too much time on the net. We use the seals for the trophy, but he wants to film them for his stupid video he thinks is gonna get him into the big time.

Sleep comes slowly tonight. My mind lingers on how Christmas was when we were kids. I don't think Steve or I got a wink of sleep that Christmas in the third grade. We kept both ears off the pillows, our eyes tracing the dim lines of the ceiling, hoping to hear the sound of hooves. That was the year Jackson had been drinking and Becka got upset and took off. He tried to catch her in the Bronco but lost control and plowed that elk through our picture window. We heard the hooves, but then it was a sick bray and that grating of hard rubber over ice, then the inevitable smash that led to red-stained antlers under our tree. I don't think I've been the same since.

Focus. Sleep.
He's at it again. He managed to let the bloody seal out, and he threw a dollop of his goo on her. Suzi is writhing around to the tune of Dwayne's tinny trance music. What makes it worse is she's wearing a tall white striped red hat, and a bow tie. Familiar but strange. Odd. I call out, expectant of some justification for the racket, for the defiling of our prize seal. Why must he do this!? Dwayne scampers up to me, the way he usually does, eyes averted, mouth hanging open. Sometimes I just want to reach out and smack his jaw closed, but you know what they say about undesired physical contact. I ask him what this is about, and he starts stammering about his video, how its going to be perfect. Suddenly I see an explosion behind Dwayne's right shoulder. I see the outline of Skrimpf hobbling towards us. He looks singed. Fireworks aren't the only thing exploding, because suddenly Dwayne has lost it, "LIGHTS GADAMMIT! I SAID YOU HANDLE LIGHTING, NOT THE FOURTH OF FECKIN JULAH!"

I try to step in and moderate, but I only wake myself up. Groggily, I make my way to the urination station, passing leaves scattered around the bath tub. Oh, right Skrimpf is staying with me. Figures. Guess things didn't work out so well with wild-eye Alexa.

I hobble back to my room to have a normal dream, but now I've got Silverchair stuck in my head.

Tomorrow will be a big day.

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