Every Word

Every word, created by a little turd, hid something ugly. Poor Miles nearly pooped himself to death. He didn’t know what prompted him to do it. Perhaps Miles just couldn’t stand another minute of Harold’s pouting. Perhaps he felt sorry for his friend. Harold's every sigh emanated depression. If he had the pours, it would have poured out like goblets of sweat on a working man working in a 100 degree sunny/humid day.

            “Oh bother,” grumbled Miles under his breath. “Really Harold, must you watch every letter I excoriate?”

            “Sorry Miles,” grinned Harold, trying to contain himself and keep his head on his shoulders. “How much, err, poop do you have left in you? Do you think you can finish the stanza today?”

            “Don’t worry old fellow,” Miles returned, turning around to face Harold. “It’s going to rain, and the weather will keep the property manager off this road. Wouldn’t think he’d bring a prospect out in this weather.”

Miles lifted his tail, balanced his butt, and with perfect aim, finished the last line of Harold’s poem. He had been working on Harold’s “masterpiece” for a week, and momentarily felt a shiver of pride. That disappeared quickly when he silently read the poem to himself.

Oh to be a ghost

Who can’t ever eat another roast.

Whose head always falls upon the ground

Be it ever so round.

It rolls just like a stone.

All I am is bones.

            Miles started sobbing uncontrollably. His whiskers quivered, his tail drooped; he had no more poop. He thought, “Gads,” and jumped on the windowsill. Harold, shocked at Miles behavior, shouted, “Miles, what are you doing?”

            “I need some fresh air,” Miles said, leaping through the window, running across the sagging porch, and scampering up the listing porch rail, where he sat in silent contemplation.