Dedicated followers of my writing practice--a chilly good morning to you, Uncle Misty and Aunt Blue--already know that I'm willing to give events in my own life to a character who freely distorts, supplements, magnifies--in short, takes the credit and blame for whatever the event might mean, thereby relieving me from the necessity of doing so.
This morning, for instance, it's a man named dog (lower case) who remembers a time--it seems unbelievable now--when our mothers leaned out the front or back door of our houses and sang out DAW-og. Come in for SUP-per.
And dog would straggle home, maybe waiting for the second call but not, if he knew what's good for him, the third.
What dog would like to express about such times is the allure of the borderland, the potential of darkness, past the normal indoor routine of the home. It's pretty innocent, mostly--game of football on someone's lawn, game of Freedom in the park. But if he's lucky, Gloria or Diane will show up, which is where the thrill and the terror come in, or come out . . .
I suppose that here at Fool's Paradise, where if he's not careful he could take a wrong step on one of his little explorations through the trees that separate the lawn from the steep ravine slope--not to mention the ever-present (but in geological time, what could "present" possibly mean?) bluff face--I suppose that dog could be hanging out here at the edge of things--he's not sure why, he's just drawn here--when he hears his mother call.
DAW-og. Time for SUP-per. RIGHT NOW!