It is three in the morning on Saturday following Good Friday. The waning moon washes the bedroom with cold light. The sheets are cool and clean. The dogs–(in paranoid moments I think they are part of a neighborhood conspiracy designed to keep me at home and in town) are fast asleep. The mutt is stretched out making me cramped and bowlegged between my knees and the weeks-old Chihuahua is curled up on the pillow, his head resting on my shoulder. The last fire of the season pops a little. An old song runs through my head; El santo angel de mi guardia.
My neighbor sent his young daughter over with Rambo in an effort to disperse the litter which includes Killer, Brutus, Claude and Zeus. His hyper-thyroidic bug eyes and charcoal muzzle enchanted me, and the mutt didn’t attempt to eat him.
Like hobbits we share this tiny dormered adobe; my men.
© Tasso 2002