A Fine, Leisure-Potato Day On Red Beet Beach
The Coop Has Flown
McClük* was tired. Dog-bone tired. Like a spineless AKC PoodlePointer after a retrieve-less day in the bog. Not even a single phalanges left in the bag. A real flip-flop, flipitant bowser of a bird. With no seeming purpose left in life, or even a touch of spinal rigidity to lean on. Yes, it had been a long, long week for sure for our intrepid, P.I. fowl. Reduced to wandering the streets in search of a new place to call home. Finally stopping in at MABEL MADGE'S PERFECT PIES for a much needed snack, and to check the local paper. Perusing the Want-Ad's, in search of a new coop. The other one had flown. Carried away by non-tropical storm Geniirva the previous Saturday.
McClük poked at his Maple Bar with a fork, then blew an airy raspberry into his warm Root Beer. The thought of an errant, barnyard cow spinning past his long-lost home, as it headed up up and away, over and into the next county beyond, like in that old movie with the cackling green lady, provided some much-needed mirth. He clucked aloud, "Wouldn't THAT be something! A wide-eyed, airborne Bovidae, chewing his cud, twirling on by my front coop window with a certain look of barnyard disdain. Haah, I really should cut back on late-night TV." The thought of no TV, or even a home to plug it INTO, returned with a dull, cranial thud. Further chucker-wilting his already dour mood, and sticking fast like a fish bone in his stony crop. A fresh reminder, he no longer had a place to call...or even phone, if he HAD one...home.
Let's face it, there IS no place like it. And now? No kitchen, no sit-a-spell loo, no wander-in closet. Nowhere to plop and roost at the end of the day. Can't even hot-plate-up a robust, scratch stir-fry! Nope...nothing left, except a cello bag of Werther's, a small downy couch pillow, $27.50 in bus change, and of course, the all-precious pencil and paper. McClük wouldn't be caught dead to left's without his No.2 Eberhard Faber and Office-Mate Steno, flip-top spiral notebook. How ELSE would he take the all-important notes, solving his next mystery?
~ § ~
Those Stones Of Great Value
That last one, had been a doozy. The Case Of The Missing Dane. It had been a great one. Poor pooch, never knew what hit him. And never made it home from the Vet's after. His people said he should have been home by 4:00. Never showed. They were beside themselves, worried sick. Which was understandable. McClük had let them down easy, "should be back in a week or so, big dogs are known to for this sort of thing now and then. Probably met a sweet Pomeranian at a hydrant. Wandered off to the south woods, or on down the block by the vacant lot."
They weren't buying the story. Possibly because their dog had just been 'fixed'. McClük never understood that line of reasoning. Everything worked just fine, BEFORE he went to the doctor. He tried to re-assure the distraught folks. To no avail. Then again, McClük was no Willy Loman when it came to skirting the truth.
He felt guilty in saying it, but they paid his way. Forty five dollars a day, plus expenses. The going rate for a first class bird with a brain. Yes, he needed to make them feel good about it all. But McClük KNEW. The too-tall four-legger' had no-doubt fled the county. "Can't say as I blame him"...muttered our slightly addled, private eye chicken, as he pored over yet another ad for an over-priced Coop in the paper. "Sixty five dollars. A MONTH! For a ONE story! What...you think I'm a DUCK?!" The thoughts were binging around like a ping pong ball on a steep gravel drive. The ball took a hard right turn again..."And who WOULDN'T split, after his family jewels had been absconded with. Poor Dane. Yikes Almighty!!" McClük pinched his little yellow feet and spindly legs together a bit harder under the silver Formica restaurant table, as he pondered the clinical possibilities.
The sun was streaming strong already... up and over the horizon through the plate glass window by the door. Shining bright and orange like a fresh-cut Navel through the early AM haze of the city. Ricocheting off the manhole cover's along Mulberry Street as it made it's way toward full daylight. The heavy, shimmering steel plates in the road reminded him of huge, shiny pennies, stuck in a row in the coal-black asphalt. Such morning beauty still couldn't erase what was coming on down the pike in the future. What to do, what to do? The question felt as old as the rising Sun itself.
~ § ~
Then it hit him, like a handful of pea gravel to the noggin, tossed by that pecker-wood third grader from across the road last Tuesday. The BEACH. It was going to get hot. REAL hot. The weather man had said so, back on page B-7. Up to 98 degrees F by noon. A real short's-squelch-er. The thought was a major mood depressor. Even for a stick-person barnyard fowl who epitomized the essence of cool.
Why NOT head over to the beach for the day, and kibosh this whole new-coop folderol? His next case wasn't due to open for a few days. There was time. McClük tossed the rolled-up newsprint back into the bin by the door, tipped the big lady who WASN'T Mabel Madge...the one with the apron, sweaty hairnet and big bosom, that had served him his Maple bar and RBJoe...and turned to go. McClük pushed the door wide, and headed out across Q Street.
Square Two Cubed Liquor Emporium had just opened their doors for daily business, and a twelve pack of reeb's (beer spelled backwards, for those of you not 'in the know'), would go far to damper down the promise of a sweltery day on the sand.
McClük danced a small-bird polka as he entered the store. Oh the luck! The best brew in town was on sale. It said so, right across the hand lettered, A-frame placard of cheap plywood by the counter. "Two dollars and 45 cents, for 1/12 gross. Can't beat THAT with a wooden spoon! " He feathered his change down onto the counter, tipped his visor to Melbrin behind the register, scooped up his half case of cold Spudweiser, and stilted out to the streets beyond. Onward, to Sandy Paradise, and a day of high promise.
~ § ~
Red Beet Beach
Small Bird Paradise In A Wallyworld Tote
Mr. Green Gene's didn't seem to mind folks using his private beach. Yes, it was a bit compact, but no one ever claimed paradise was measured by the acre. Though small, as standard beaches go, it always promised a whole day of quiet relaxation. After all, how many yayhoos can you fit into a sand-filled, 28 gallon stack-able tote from Wallyworld ? Not many.
This whole beach-in-a-bucket idea was a brilliant one. A farmer by choice and trade, Mr. Green Genes LOVED his home-grown red beets. And what better way to keep them cool and fresh in the sweltering heat of summer, than to bury them in sand. Good old Beach Sand. Then drag the whole shebang over into the shade on the east side of the pump house, to just sit, and 'be'. The idea worked quite well as a produce preserver. And downright TOP QUALITY as a quiet place to park your bum in the sand, ponder the events of the day, and have more than a few canned brews in the process.
Mr. Green Genes called it his Above Ground Veggie Larder. McClük called it Red Beet Beach. Whatever YOU might label it, along in June or so, the beets buried close to the surface sprouted like clockwork, and produced the best darn palm-like trees you've ever seen on any beach. Any where. A true, shady paradise in the sand. At 5.87 square feet and counting.
~ § ~
McClük set up shop on the beach under a 'tree', popped his first 'reeb', and proceeded to bag some serious rays as the sun headed to half-past 12 in the sky. It was all so glorious, and just what the veterinarian ordered. Relaxation washed over him like the waft of a beached carp after a summer storm.
As with most small children, Mr. Green Gene's grandson had a huge ball collection, and somehow, one of them ended up on Red Beet Beach. A small, white and black rendition of a soccer ball. McClük soon discovered the true joy of squishing and pushing the spongy ball back and forth across the sand with his toes. Back and forth, forth and back. All the while drinking more than a few Spudweiser's, and thinking of nothing but the smell of sandy, far-off, tropical shores in odd ports-of-call around the globe. And BEETS. It was hard to escape the pungent aroma of the moldering veggies buried deep in the damp sand on a hot summer day.
Undaunted, McClük played on, assigning the black and white ball the name Wilson²·¹, and then hatched a new plan. He would bury his new-found friend in the sand, much like a sporting version of a red beet, so he would have something to play with on his next trip to the beach.
~ § ~
So Many Cats-So Much Time
Before he could think much beyond what to dig a hole WITH, McClük passed into a very deep, hard sleep in the bright, hot sun. Languid visions of cute birds cavorting along a shoreline danced in and out of his dream state. Suddenly, he was rudely awakened by enormous spray's of sand, swooshing over and onto him from above. He glanced to his left, and received a whole face-full of beach. A cat was winging sand at him from between his back legs to the rear, like he was madly digging his way to Istanbul. Damn cat! Must consider Red Beet Beach was his own private litter box. "BE-G-O-N-E, Y-O-U S-T-U-P-I-D C-A-T"!!
It was that rogue feline Mustachio, from across the fence. A HUGE black and white junkyard cat, with facial markings that reminded everyone of Groucho Marx. McClük heaved Wilson²·¹ at him, bonking him a good one on the nozzer. Thus causing the annoying puss to quickly exit the beach drenched in quite the hissy-snit, and one final blast of sand to the face for good measure.
McClük brushed his feathers clean, then pulled out his Eberhard-Faber and Spiral notedbook to jot and doodle-draw a complete CLOSET-full of incredible idea fodder. "Hmm, Grand Plan Number 187: Electric fence to keep pesky cats from soiling my precious beach. I'm sure Green Genes has some electric fence parts around the place. THAT should provide some nifty cat zapping". After all, this was HIS beach, and defiling all this precious sand with fur balls and buried kitty bombs just WOULD not do.
"Cat's, like ducks, just don't belong on a beach. We chooks, on the other hand, were BORN to Beach. " McClük liked that one. He pursed his lips as only a chicken can, muttering "oooh, bumper sticker material. Better get it down." The idea was jotted all birdiewampus into the margins, next to his intricate, electrical fence-on-the-beach plans. "THAT'S a winner, might be worth some MONDO people scratch on Stickers Are Us. "
It was getting late, and time to head back to town. McClük buried Wilson²·¹ deep in the sand, gathered up his five belongings, and climbed down from the beach bin as the sun began to set over the south forty.
Long shadows from the tall grass were starting to form on the sides of the pump house wall, and a light breeze kicked up from the west. The smell of cow pies, sun-baked hay-grass, and earthy soil wafted his way. Another grand day in paradise, and SO many more to come. He completely forgot about his missing coop dilemma, and wandered back to town along Old Placer Road, plucking and chewing on stems of Timothy hay as he went.
Tomorrow was another day. And it promised to be splendiferous. Another case to crack coming up. From what he already knew about it, looked to be a real puzzler. The moon finally rose in the east, winking over Wilbrook's Grain Elevator as he strolled into the edge of town by Rowe Avenue. A dog barked, a baby cried through an open window somewhere down the street, and a car honked as it drove past...the dorky passenger wildly arm-flapping like a bird as they passed. McClük suppressed the urge to flick his pointy-leaded Eberhard off the dork's forehead as they whizzed by. Wouldn't want to waste a good pencil!! Yes...a normal evening in the standard, bird-book of life.
Now he just had to find a quiet place to crash for the night. Maybe Roweena would be home from the diner by now. She always complained when he stopped in after ten fifteen and UN-anounced. But she always fed him, and never kicked him out. Who could blame her? Such a dapper bird, with a pencil behind his ear, spiral pad tucked away, and more ideas than you could shake a stick at. But that's another story for another day.
-- Good night to all, and to all, a good night. --
~ Finto ~
Author's Note: I've been out in the heat, working all day. I wish I had a Red Beet Beach to go sit on, and drink epic, quality beers, and ponder life, and push a ball about in the sand with my toes. But I discovered I don't fit in the beet storage tote. [Large Vociferous Sigh] Maybe tomorrow I shall go to a real beach, and do these wondrous things. I also wonder if it will smell like beets? We can only hope...
*McClük : Pronounced Mc-Cl-oooh-k
Our Hero And His New Buddy Wilson²·¹ -- Enjoying A Few Beers On Red Beet Beach
Thanks for stopping in and viewing a short story about the illustrious Private Investigator, McClük. If you have any thoughts about solving crimes, whether ducks or cats SHOULD be allowed on the beach, how to make your OWN personal paradise in a plastic tote, or anything else this post reminds you of, please feel free to comment away in the spaces below. I'd love to hear from you.
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Posted: 08/09/2018 @ 00:28
Excerpts From Late-Night Conversations With A Mechanical Cat
Fact Number 87