Dr. Stark Bones
There is a dog in our back room, and it is just a little knot of skin and bones curled up on a blanket.
Last night was crazy-ass indoor mini-golf, all of us in bright array because the roommmates read the paper literally and think if you tell Portlanders to dress in bright crazy clothes, they will. Which is mostly untrue unless you counted us, Team Scarfer, gaudily displayed with knee socks, rainbow sunglasses, and matching mismatching scarves. We blew them away, I'm pretty sure. The holes were a variety of home-made slightly artful objects, including one that featured real live goldfish darting through the water trap, and another with a man perched on a stool directly over the thirteenth hole, with his whiskey glass in hand and a paper that he occasionally stopped reading in order to switch the player's golf ball with a lemon, or tie a member of the party to a chair.
Once we broke free of the mess of hipsters littering the course, half of us ______ (you know, I've spent the last ten minutes trying to find a ballet resource that will show me what the big stretching dancer leaps are called, and I can't find any with pictures, but that's what they did) across the four lane street, and the other half walking demurely across as if to say, I don't know what you're referring too, brightly colored, us?
Then it was drinks at the Hungry Tiger (ladies night, people, ladies night) and a few games of pool for assorted folks, and a magical magical jukebox evening filled with Death Cab and Blake Schwarzenbach and I thought I chose the Pixies but it's okay. It was still good, the small group of us wavering between far too high on life and just mildly high, scaring passers by.
Still, the ride home left me slightly rummy and worn out, so I don't even think my eyes were open when someone pointed out an object on the side of the road, and there was a quick debate over the form of beast until they realized it was just a puppy, a scared shivering wretch of a Boston terrier that finally paused and stood piddling itself in the middle of Stark street. We wrapped my sweatshirt around it when it finally stopped growling and carried it back ti the car and then on home, where the green room got cleaned out and we set up a crate on its side with a blanket inside, and then to Walgreens to buy some food because honestly, the poor thing was starving thin, and so we fed it and it's pretty calm, now, balled up and sleeping in a patch of sun, and you can see how the ribs stick up and show through the patchy black fur, and the hind legs fold like bat wings up against its small frame.
Last night was crazy-ass indoor mini-golf, all of us in bright array because the roommmates read the paper literally and think if you tell Portlanders to dress in bright crazy clothes, they will. Which is mostly untrue unless you counted us, Team Scarfer, gaudily displayed with knee socks, rainbow sunglasses, and matching mismatching scarves. We blew them away, I'm pretty sure. The holes were a variety of home-made slightly artful objects, including one that featured real live goldfish darting through the water trap, and another with a man perched on a stool directly over the thirteenth hole, with his whiskey glass in hand and a paper that he occasionally stopped reading in order to switch the player's golf ball with a lemon, or tie a member of the party to a chair.
Once we broke free of the mess of hipsters littering the course, half of us ______ (you know, I've spent the last ten minutes trying to find a ballet resource that will show me what the big stretching dancer leaps are called, and I can't find any with pictures, but that's what they did) across the four lane street, and the other half walking demurely across as if to say, I don't know what you're referring too, brightly colored, us?
Then it was drinks at the Hungry Tiger (ladies night, people, ladies night) and a few games of pool for assorted folks, and a magical magical jukebox evening filled with Death Cab and Blake Schwarzenbach and I thought I chose the Pixies but it's okay. It was still good, the small group of us wavering between far too high on life and just mildly high, scaring passers by.
Still, the ride home left me slightly rummy and worn out, so I don't even think my eyes were open when someone pointed out an object on the side of the road, and there was a quick debate over the form of beast until they realized it was just a puppy, a scared shivering wretch of a Boston terrier that finally paused and stood piddling itself in the middle of Stark street. We wrapped my sweatshirt around it when it finally stopped growling and carried it back ti the car and then on home, where the green room got cleaned out and we set up a crate on its side with a blanket inside, and then to Walgreens to buy some food because honestly, the poor thing was starving thin, and so we fed it and it's pretty calm, now, balled up and sleeping in a patch of sun, and you can see how the ribs stick up and show through the patchy black fur, and the hind legs fold like bat wings up against its small frame.