Ruckus

Four in the morning and it sounds like a young war. That pack of dogs again. I had to clean out the fridge, and I buried everything deep in ash on the compost heap, but not, apparently, deep enough. Ruckus was the word that jumped to mind ([?f. ruction and rumpus] O. Henry, 1909, Roads Of Destiny) which I finally tracked down in "The Dictionary Of Americanisms" that Howard had sent me years ago, rescued from the trash at Bowling Green. A word from the Arkansas frontier. I'm sick of these dogs, they run off the wildlife, and they bark at me, which I find offensive. I scatter them with a couple of rocks, but I'm pissed, because I know I'll never get back to sleep, and I had been deep into a slightly erotic dream, in color, that involved the very best ankles I'd ever, personally, known. A banked fire of Osage Orange is easy enough to rekindle, and the house is quite warm, so, looking toward the next incident, I brew an espresso, unpack a couple of shotgun shells, removing the pellets, and repack them with rock salt. I need to make a show of things, but I really don't want to kill anything. I have an old 12 gauge skeet gun I've cut down to the legal limit (18 inches of barrel) that I stash in the space between the double-sided bookcase that forms the largest interior wall of my house.The next time those dogs raise a ruckus, they're in for a surprise. I have to smile, I should be so well prepared. Maybe it's not enough to be merely ready, but it feels pretty good; bring on the dogs, we'll see. I have a cheap bag of gnarly apples in case the fox returns, tobacco and papers, whiskey enough, rice, some cured meats, acorns, I could go on forever.