Well, I was saving this for closer to Halloween, but I think the forum really needs to return to our nonsensical norm. I was in Texarkana last week, and saw a sign that inspired me to write this absolutely true (well, kinda) story. I warn you, read at your own risk, it may be too intense for fruitcake minds. But, whatever you do, read it aloud. And never, never, by an open window, when the moon is just rising, and the wind is damp off the bayou........

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Texarkana Texas could be a city much like any other. The people there look like people anywhere; young, old, fat, beautiful; normal. The buildings look the same as any others in hundreds of places; schools, gas stations, homes, chain stores. Texarkana Texas could be a city much like any other, that is, it could, except for the secret. Except for the nightmares.

Wandering among the older buildings along the south edge of town, runs a small drainage canal, the relic of an old-time creek which once meandered through the city’s heart. In fact, the people still call it a creek, and the people speak softly down in Texarkana Texas, when they mention the name. Children here could be like any others, but they all know the story; they all know the fear. And when the night wind howls, it brings an old shiver - to the should-be happy children in their beds, in the would-be snug houses, in the could-be normal city, along the banks of........Swamp Poodle Creek.

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Fifi could hardly remember those days. The lazy days of satin pillows and gourmet puppy food. Days spent in splendid decadence at the doggie spa; days of “pretty puppy”, and “nice doggie”, which had become a nagging haze on her memory. A memory of that time before. Before Fifi went bad.

It all started so innocently, as these things often do. A mischievous dash between the postman’s legs into the forbidden front lawn took on a new dimension that only a bizarre trick of fate could explain. The doggie gods laughed at Fifi that day. She knew in her heart that she had only wanted to be friendly, to touch noses, and maybe share a neighborly sniff of behinds with old Mrs. Dougan’s cat.

But the feline, who was relaxing by the daffodils where he had just chewed the three front-most blooms into ragged yellow tatters, wanted no part of the poodle’s slightly slavering salutations. The cat, unaccountably alarmed at the thought of buttsniff-swapping with the frilly French miss, ignored the scent of Chanel that wafted from the delicate coiffure of the prancing pooch, and made an ill-considered dash for the crepe myrtle tree across the road. Unfortunately, the cat’s hasty retreat and the scheduled delivery of Mrs. Dugan’s new chaise lounge crossed their respective paths of destiny under the front wheel of Lester Hardigan’s furniture truck.

Of course, it was an accident, there was nothing to be done, nothing to recall. But, as Fifi tremblingly sniffed the crushed and newly lifeless carcass, she felt a wakening of ancient memories, a timeless remembrance of feral blood lust. A churning of genetic compunctions which would lead the canine debutante down the one-way road leading to infamy, to legend, to the abomination known as .......the Swamp Poodle.

It was easy, after that. To slip out past the old woman, or past her maid on wash-day. It was easy to find smells to roll in, papers to chew, garbage to savage. Fifi found herself uncontrollably drawn down an ever-increasing path of degenerate doggitude. It’s not pretty when a girl goes bad, but Fifi didn’t stop to look in the mirror. She found that by jerking her head at precisely the right time, her normally bouffant hair cut took on a decidedly Mohawk appearance. She was delighted to discover that one ear, dipped in the royal blue of tidy-bowl would hold the hue for days, and that only one roll of toilet paper could be shredded and fluffed to completely fill the formal dining room before company was expected.

All this could have ended as only girlish impetuousness, had not the old maid left the kitchen door ajar as she left for the night. As Fifi slipped into the darkness of a winter’s sliver of moon, she knew that she was crossing a threshold far more immense that that of the rear porch. She had entered the world of darkness, and it became hers. She spent her days snoozing in the shade of lilac bushes, but her nights were filled with spreading terror along the banks of the gentle creek. She ate what she found, and prowled where she would. Horrified inhabitants of the once-quiet neighborhood awoke to find muddy paw prints on the hood of the Oldsmobile. Clothes left on the line after nightfall became victory banners to be carried down muddy alleyways. Overnight, garden hoses became soaker hoses, perforated by jaws filled with tiny gleaming teeth. It was a city under siege, a city traumatized, a city in the clutches of ........the Swamp Poodle.

Some say those days have passed into memory. Some say that Fifi still prowls the darkness along the creek. Some say it’s a myth; some say it’s the gospel. But when the moon rises late, when the wind comes down from icy mountains of the Ouacita, when hoar frost settles along the banks lined with ancient magnolias, folks remember. And they lock their doors when they hear the howls......the howls down along... Swamp..... Poodle...... Creek.

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-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), September 28, 2001

Answers

Well, OK,

It COULD be true. I mean, there really was a sign for Swamp Poodle Creek, an' an', there were buildings an', an', other stuff. It could be true. No really, it could!

really

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-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), September 28, 2001.

Yeah, and doggitude is SO a word. A perfectly good word. Just because Gayla never uses it, don't mean nuthin'. She's probably said lots of words that don't exactly live at Webster's house, ya konw?

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-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), September 28, 2001.

LOL Lon. Thanks. We FRLians have, over the years, certainly come up with more than a few new words that ain't in any spellcheckers :-)

And I think that doggitude can also be used to describe a dog with an attitude.

-- (sonofdust@doggi.tude), September 28, 2001.

Yeah, and once I heard a true story, you know, of some kids parking our on a really really dark road, like, real close to that creek, where a lot of kids had gone missing, and the girl got cold all of a sudden, you know, and got scared, and the guy was going to get out and like, check, you know around the car, but the girl started crying and told him not to go because she had heard something scraping on the top of the car, you know, and the guy got mad, and like peeled out, and got out of there, and later when they got to town, someone honked at them, you know, and when they pulled over, there were poodle footprints on the ROOF OF THE CAR! Is that scary, OR WHAT!!!

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-- Babs (kidsparkingdown@the.bayou), September 28, 2001.

LOL!!

Lon, I dunno where you get your sense of humour, but mine was obviously also born in that same warped area :-) Thanks for the laughs.

-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@telusplanet.net), September 28, 2001.

Yay! A story!

-- helen (oodles@of.poodles), September 28, 2001.

LOL! I love the story. And Swamp Poodle Creek is a terrific name. But FIFI? It's hard to be traumatized by a dog named Fifi. We gotta think of a scarier name for her.

And HEY! I like doggitude! Definitely a doggie with a 'tude. :-)

-- Gayla (privacy@please.com), September 28, 2001.

I once drove a half mile to the 7-11, and when I got there..people pointed at the roof of my car. My cat was sitting up there, looking freaked. In exchange for removing her from the roof and putting her IN the car, she gave me a nice reminder of her dislike of car rides on the roof...with four sharp claws.

And that is why people go missing in swamps..

-- kritter (kritter@adelphia.net), October 01, 2001.

Well, I haven’t posted much this week. It was kind of a hard time for me; we lost my wife’s grandfather two days ago. I now feel that I must write to all of you, and warn you that this kind of thing can happen to anyone at any time.

It was one of those crisp early fall days, when the leaves are just starting to change, and the air is full of autumn hurry. In the back of my mind I knew that Pops was in this season of his life, as well, but I just wouldn’t admit that he was on the verge of slipping away from me so suddenly.

I had stopped by early in the day so as not to interfere with his “beauty nap”, and asked if he wanted to go shopping with me. I needed to stock in my winter’s supply of cinnamon gummy bears, and the missus wanted a pair of flannel lady’s unmentionables. The young lady at the home bundled him up, and we were on our way, without another thought.

We made our typical small talk, about three-legged dogs and race horses, and without any premonition of what was about to happen, arrived in the Super K. We were kind of loitering around the fishing gear, and I only turned my back on him for an instant. Just as I spotted the jumbo bag of red hot bears that I prefer, Pops wondered into a narrow isle featuring assorted baby items. In fact, a young woman was there with her toddler in the shopping basket. Pops and the kid each gave each other a tentative grin, never suspecting the roles fate had chosen for them on that blustery afternoon.

As the baby burbled with laughter, the old man choochie-cooed with exceptional gusto. In fact, he worked his way through his entire repertoire, including the vigorous head-shake where his jowls and lips shook and flapped with a hideous funny sound. It was just then that his false teeth flew from his mouth and landed on the floor, skidding under the counter’s lower rim.

What happened next will haunt my dreams and sadden my eyes for the rest of my days. Pops struggled down to hands and knees to retrieve his fugitive choppers, the baby blew sloppy kisses, the leaves outside changed to subtle golds and the loud speaker of the Super K announced a blue light special on disposable diapers, which were located directly above the prostrate old gentleman. And the gods of commerce laughed.

I could tell you all, in detail, the events of the next few minutes, but I’m afraid it might warp your delicate sensitivities for life. It was, in fact, not pretty. As the feminine bargain feeding frenzy enveloped the old man, I tried to force my way to his side, or rather to his rump, as that was the only part which was visible. Carried along on the tide of straining humanity, I soon lost sight of even his withered posterior, and as time seemed to slow to the tempo of a tortured heartbeat, I finally lost the last shred of hope as well.

But, that’s how it happened, and that’s how it will stay, etched into my nightmares. In a flickering of an eyelash, I lost the old man, to the echoes of blue light specials. I lost Pops that afternoon; I lost him to the fickle humor of fate and Super K. I lost Pops that afternoon, and when I finally found him, he was in the lady’s underwear department, with one of those new thong-type undies over his head, making faces at a giggling little girl behind her momma’s back. He’ll never learn.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN! (bet I gotcha, huh?)

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-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), October 05, 2001.

LOL, Lon. Except it's October, not April ;-)

Or did your evil twin send you up into space with DIeTeR, fooling us all in to thinking you were him???

-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@telusplanet.net), October 05, 2001.

Wait a minute! Now, just wade a cotton-pickin' minute! Youse mean to tell me that Halloween is in April now? When did they move it, for cryin' out loud. I'm always the last to find thises kinda things out.

WHY DIDN'T I GET A MEMO????

-- Lon Frank (lgal@exp.net), October 05, 2001.

I just had a heart attack, Lon. :)

-- helen (toot@too.real), October 05, 2001.

Well, helen, at least ya got a heart - and it's "original equipment"!

But, if it's botherin' ya, tell you what I"ll do. I'll just take a listen here, and see that it's still tickin' along.

Just let me put my ear right here on the f...f...firm immensity of your b..b...bosu.........

Well, the same to you!!! I was just tryin' to help 's all. It's not like I WANT to be held close to your bosum. It's not like I NEED human compassion, it's not like I DESIRE a hot sweet roll in the morning!

Just tryin' to help 's all.

-- Lon Frankenstien (evil@the.bayou), October 05, 2001.

Lon! You had us SO worried about the poor old guy. As punishment, you shall not get ANY Halloween candy! (Tricia, I understood the April Fool's reference.) :-)

BTW, if you're gonna get trampled to death during a sale, at least make sure it's a Foley's "Red Apple" sale. It just sounds a little classier, ya know? ;-)

-- Gayla (privacy@please.com), October 07, 2001.

What's a Foley's? The only one I know of is used in a hospital setting, and is a catheter inserted.... well, let's not go there.

-- Tricia the Canuck (jayles@telusplanet.net), October 07, 2001.

Eeeewwww! Not THAT kind of foley! LOL

Foley's is a lot like Macy's. Much cleaner floors to be trampled on than K-Mart. ;-)

-- Gayla (privacy@please.com), October 08, 2001.