Who's the Boss?

Jack comes to visit, all seventy pounds of him. He's just a pup, and his clumsy feet trample poor old Mr. Wilson. Wilson doesn't mind much, he gets crushed into the soft grass, rolls over, lifts his head and raises the little stub of a tail and gets right back to being in charge.

It's a never ending game that dogs play with each other, and with us humans. Every moment that they spend

with another being is spent asserting dominance or submitting to the will of another. What we perceive as a need for affection when our dogs lick us or jump on us is actually the dog's way of asserting dominance over us. By marking us with their scent they have, in their minds, taken control of us. It's up to us to take it back.

When Mr. Wilson lifts his head, even though he is just a little squirt, he is taking charge. By raising his tail he is telling Jack, with his scent that we cannot sense, but other dogs certainly can, that he is the head honcho, and the games will be going his way, or no way!

Once the dogs and humans figure out who is in charge, everybody can relax, and get on with the business of the day, which besides taking and giving control includes a lot of running and jumping and wrestling and fun. Dinner time is a whole different set of who's the boss maneuverings, and a great time to let the dogs know who is really in charge.

Us!

Dancing with Mr. Wilson

Had somebody in the year 1977 told me that the music that blared from just about every self-respecting teenaged youth's speakers, created by the mighty AC/DC would in my lifetime be considered mainstream rock and roll, and good time music I would have told them they were nuts. When we were young and a bit wild, AC/DC was the epitope of hard rock. It would drive our parents crazy, and the louder it got the better we liked it!

I don't think I would have recognized myself had I had the opportunity to climb into a time machine and fast forward thirty-five years. But I definately would have recognized the tunes that the old guy and his dog were dancing to in the living room of their middle-class ranch in their middle class neighborhood, smack dab in their middle ages!

Rock and Roll ain't dead, and neither are we...

The Bell Ringer

The Bell Ringer

The day is a bit frantic, lots to do, and not enough time to do it in. An after dark cup of coffee is just what I

need for the final leg of my journey that began shortly after sunrise. There’s a place near the last place on my list of places to go; a Christmas Shoppe on the week before Christmas. I can hardly wait.

There’s a line at the drive-thru so I park the car and walk in. A couple of teenage boys are the only people in the place and as soon as I enter one of them cuts in front of me and asks the girl behind the counter, “how much for a medium hot chocolate?”

“Two-fifty plus tax,” the girl replied.

“What about the .99 cent special?” asked the kid.

“You need a receipt from before noon today,” she replied as sternly as the kid’s question was surly. He snorted and put his buck back in his pocket and returned to his friend, rejected.

“Can I help you?” asked the girl behind the counter, finally noticing me.  I hate being invisible.

“A medium hot coffee, just milk.” I thought for a moment then said “and two medium hot chocolates.”

“You want whipped cream?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

The boys sat at a little table in the corner, two kids with no money and nothing to do but around the coffee shop. Their uniform of skinny jeans and hoodies didn’t look all that different from mine some thirty-five years ago, only my jeans were faded and an old army jacket took the place of the hooded sweatshirts. One thing had changed though, we used to hang around outside the stores; nobody would let us in

.

“You guys want whipped cream?” I asked them.

They looked back, bewildered.

“Two with whipped cream,” I said to the girl behind the counter, and she went to work. 

“Merry Christmas guys, I remember how it feels to be broke,” I said, and dropped the cups on their table.

The kids were stunned, and though they tried to remain cool could not suppress the delight my small gesture had on them.  It never fails to amaze me how a smile can transform a person; these two went from thug imitators to a couple of regular high school kids who just got an unexpected treat.

They got a hot chocolate, but I got much more. The looks on their faces when they realized what I had done was not at all what I would have thought. There was no suspicion, no uneasiness or sarcasm, just a genuine helping of gratitude that even the angst of adolescent life could not disguise. I think that they were as surprised with their response as I was. I doubt if anything like what just happened to them had ever happened to them before. In a world full of predictability something completely unpredictable had just happened.

Maybe I’m kidding myself and my gesture was no big deal. But maybe it was. Maybe these two kids who were hanging around a donut shop with nothing to do spent a few minutes enjoying their hot chocolate and feeling a little better about the people they share their world with. Maybe the next time they see an older guy coming they’ll hold the door for him, and that guy will get a different perspective of today’s youth, and not think that they are all a bunch of rude, unmotivated, texting, video game addicted creeps with no manners. Maybe that guy will see that these kids are a lot like he was when he was young, and though our pastimes have changed considerably, we are more alike than different.

And just maybe that guy will go home, and see his estranged teenaged son as a person again, and maybe he’ll find the patience he had lost, and maybe he’ll be able to recapture the magic between father and son that always seems to slip away between age 13 and twenty, no matter if it’s 1975 or 2014, or any time there have been fathers growing old and sons growing up.

Yeah, it was just a couple of hot chocolates, and there is a good a chance that the kids thought I was a chump. But there’s something magical about doing something good and decent for somebody else when there is nothing in it for you. You get to think about what you did any way you want, and allow those thoughts to grow into feelings. And it just feels great to think you made a difference.

I brought my good feelings with me to the Christmas Shoppe. I picked up the things on the list my wife had provided, and after cashing out the lady at the register quietly asked if I had “the coupon.”

“What coupon?” I asked.

The lady behind me gave me hers. It was good for ten bucks. I stashed the dough in my shirt, smiled and walked out. When I dropped the ten in the Salvation Army Bell ringer’s pot I realized that forces far greater than myself were at work. And it felt great to be part of it.

Silent Night, Good Girl

It’s time once again for one of my favorite passtimes, telling Ghost Stories! Loren Eaton at I Saw Lightening Fall has provided a creepy, wonderful means for us to tell some good ones. The rules are simple, 100 words, no more, no less, and make it creepy!

“From your chair by the window, you can see snow sluicing down from a leaden sky, white on gray. The radiator ticks. The eaves creak. Metal clinks against porcelain as you shiver while stirring your drink. The world itself seems blasted by cold, an empty waste of icy earth hard as iron, denuded of life.
But, oh, it is not. Had you eyes to see, you could behold the host of restless spirits moving across this chill tableau, a cloud of unsettled witnesses. Are you sure you want to know what have they seen? Because you are anything but alone. They can tell of the wayfarer huddled in the woods just over the hill whose red right hand turned against his brother. They can tell of the nameless thing that stalks him, desperate to slake its undying thirst. And they can tell of the quiet congregation accreting by your back door.
Come, turn the knob and let us tell you our stories…”
~Loren Eaton

Here’s my contribution…

It’s time once again for one of my favorite passtimes, telling Ghost Stories! Loren Eaton at I Saw Lightening Fall has provided a creepy, wonderful means for us to tell some good ones. The rules are simple, 100 words, no more, no less, and make it creepy!

“From your chair by the window, you can see snow sluicing down from a leaden sky, white on gray. The radiator ticks. The eaves creak. Metal clinks against porcelain as you shiver while stirring your drink. The world itself seems blasted by cold, an empty waste of icy earth hard as iron, denuded of life.
But, oh, it is not. Had you eyes to see, you could behold the host of restless spirits moving across this chill tableau, a cloud of unsettled witnesses. Are you sure you want to know what have they seen? Because you are anything but alone. They can tell of the wayfarer huddled in the woods just over the hill whose red right hand turned against his brother. They can tell of the nameless thing that stalks him, desperate to slake its undying thirst. And they can tell of the quiet congregation accreting by your back door.
Come, turn the knob and let us tell you our stories…”
~Loren Eaton

Here’s my contribution…

- See more at: http://www.rescuingprovidence.com/2014/12/19/where-is-santa/#sthash.vUCPGgnn.dpuf

It’s time once again for one of my favorite passtimes, telling Ghost Stories! Loren Eaton at I Saw Lightening Fall has provided a creepy, wonderful means for us to tell some good ones. The rules are simple, 100 words, no more, no less, and make it creepy!

“From your chair by the window, you can see snow sluicing down from a leaden sky, white on gray. The radiator ticks. The eaves creak. Metal clinks against porcelain as you shiver while stirring your drink. The world itself seems blasted by cold, an empty waste of icy earth hard as iron, denuded of life.
But, oh, it is not. Had you eyes to see, you could behold the host of restless spirits moving across this chill tableau, a cloud of unsettled witnesses. Are you sure you want to know what have they seen? Because you are anything but alone. They can tell of the wayfarer huddled in the woods just over the hill whose red right hand turned against his brother. They can tell of the nameless thing that stalks him, desperate to slake its undying thirst. And they can tell of the quiet congregation accreting by your back door.
Come, turn the knob and let us tell you our stories…”
~Loren Eaton

Here’s my contribution…

- See more at: http://www.rescuingprovidence.com/2014/12/19/where-is-santa/#sthash.vUCPGgnn.dpuf

“I always loved them.”

“Even when you were alive?”

“Even more.”

Bells chime exactly one mile behind them, muted by wind, lights blinking through the squall, a red dot shrouded by a blur of color.

“Hurry, we don’t have much time.”

“Is it always this crazy?”

“Every year.”

Onto the rooftop where few four legged creatures dare, through the roof; silent, just a wisp. Eyes watching, wary, interested. An ear cocks, a head tilts.

“Good dog, sleep now my sweet girl.”

“She seems content.”

“We did our job.”

Back into the night, where a million pets waited.

“Nobody bites Santa!”

Goodreads Giveaway!

In three short days a Goodreads Giveaway featuring Mr. Wilson Makes it Home begins! Ten copies of the book are up for grabs. All you have to do is enter!

Goodreads Book Giveaway

Mr. Wilson Makes It Home

by Michael Morse

Giveaway ends December 27, 2014.

See the giveaway details
at Goodreads.

Enter to win

The Grinch who ate the Birds

"Mr Grinch!" said Mr. Wilson from his comfy spot on the couch, "why are you in the Christmas Tree?"

The Grinch sat upon his perch, surprized that Mr. Wilson had woken up, but not so surprized that he couldn't think up a lie and think it up quick.

"I'm looking for a little birdie who lost his momma," said the sly, mischievous Grinch. "I heard him chirping, and he broke my heart."

"Those aren't real birds you dummy," said Mr. Wilson with a grin. "Come on, I'll show you the real birds!"

Mr. Wilson and his new found friend strolled to the kitchen door and glanced outside. There, as promised were dozens of birds gathered around the feeders.

"If we can get somebody to let us out we can chase them!" said Mr. Wilson.

"And if we catch one, we can eat him!" said The Grinch.

"Oh no, we never catch them," said Mr. Wilson. "We just chase them."

That old Grinch then slivered his way through the crack at the bottom of the door and snuck his way right up to a pair of mourning doves who were happily eating the sunflower seeds that fell from the feeders. Just as his grinchy little fingers were about to snap the neck of one of the doves, Mr. Wilson barked frantically and scared the birds away.

"Maybe you should stay outside!" he said to The Grinch and ran to the bedroom to tell his dad what The Grinch had done.

"His brain is full of maggots, his breath is like disease Mr. Wilson, stay as far away from him as you can get!" said Wilson's Dad.

Mr. Wilson returned to the door to keep an eye on his friend The Grinch, but The Grinch was gone, leaving only some feathers scattered around the snow at the bottom of the bird feeders.

"Oh Mr. Grinch, what am I going to do with you?"

Mr. Wilson Meets The Grinch!

"Hey Dad, who's that?"

"He's The Grinch. Stay awy from him, he's no good!"

"Come on Dad, how bad can he be?"

"He's a mean one, that Mr. Grinch. He's really quite a heel."

"What's a heel?"

I pointed to The Grinch who dissapeared into the milk pitcher.

"Where'd he go?" asked Mr. Wilson.

"Far, far away, I hope."

But I knew better. The Grinch will be back, and he will do anything to STOP CHRISTMAS FROM COMING!