Pet Prose: Paxton

“Our mother had an interesting way of putting a spin on things for her children, even when most of us were grown.

For example, the night she had a big cookout for our stepfather’s birthday. We’d been outside swatting mosquitoes and drinking beer for the time it took the potatoes to bake. As the rolls came out of the oven and the sizzling steaks were removed from the grill, while my sisters brought out the salad, dressings, and other condiments, we heard Alvie–our stepfather–roar from the kitchen, ‘Did one of you girls get the butter? Where’s the butter?’

Everyone looked at their hands and the table. No butter.

‘We may be out,’ Mama called.

‘You can’t have baked potatoes without the damned butter! Do I have to do everything around here? And on my own birthday. Nobody eat a bite until I get back with the butter!’

As the sound of his motorcycle died in the distance, Mama said, ‘Of course we’ll start without him. Pass the A1 sauce, please.’

Five days later, Alvie still wasn’t back, with or without the butter. And the night Mama realized we weren’t randomly straggling into her house, but arriving with a family discussion about Alvie on our agenda, she sighed and rolled her eyes.

‘I guess it’s time I told you children the truth about your stepfather. I know he’d prefer that I didn’t, but you have to know. Alvie is a spy for the USA, and right now, he’s on a mission. Needless to say, this information remains in the family.’

None of us dared look at one another. Bad enough to have a stepfather who’d deserted our mother, but his parting gift had been to push her toward butter-free dementia.”

I take photos. I write. My volunteer job is taking photos of rescued dogs and cats transported by the rescue group whose records I manage. Since working and volunteering don’t leave me a lot of time to write, I’m spending 2017 borrowing from what these dogs and cats are writing. They said it’s okay.