Dream Come True

A dream come true

To not be blue

And enjoy the rain

And everything else, too.

“Miles, what do you think about my new tune,” Harold said.

Miles grumbled, “Oh, so that’s what that cat wailing is.”

Oh dear, Miles thought to himself. I have created a monster. Now Harold is trying to write songs. Taking a deep breath, and grabbing his tail, which had a tendency too twitch whenever he told a fib or an outright lie, Miles said, “Well, old man, I do believe you should accompany that with the banjo that Fiddlin` Red repaired.”

The banjo, Miles thought, would drown out the words, and Harold probably couldn’t sing and play the banjo simultaneously. “Put it in jig format, old man,” Miles said with a grin. Miles knew that playing a jig on the claw hammer banjo was not an easy endeavor, and he hoped that working out the tune on the banjo would keep Harold out of mischief, and prevent him from any more cat-wailing.

Unfortunately, Harold had not played the banjo in a very long time. When Miles heard the sounds floating down the stairs like a thick, wet, and dreary black cloud, he quickly inserted the earplugs he won on EBay. Just when Miles got himself comfortable, nested between Mark Twain and Harper Lee, Harold’s head appeared in front of him like a pesky fly.

“Miles,” Harold said with a whine, “I think the banjo is out of tune.”

“What,” Miles said.

“Take out those earplugs,” Harold demanded. Grudgingly, Miles removed the plugs. “The banjo seems to be out of tune,” Harold said, enunciating each word slowly.

“I’m not deaf, Harold,” Miles said. “Banjo tuning is a common complaint. Did you try using the Snark tuner Miss Kitty brought you from Fiddlin` Red’s Music?”

“Well, I have to decide what key to play the song in before I tune it.”

“I have a brilliant idea, Harold. Why don’t you practice all your A tunes on the banjo and then try playing your tune in A. You know, like a warm-up.”

“Oh Miles, you are such a good friend. I wish I could do something for you.”

Miles stood on his haunches, cradling his tail. “Well, actually Harold, there is something you could do for me. I’ve been looking at bodhrans, and found the perfect drum at Elderly Instruments. It’s only $125. Shall I order it?”

“You play the Irish drum,” Harold said.

Miles pounded a quick rift on the bookshelf with his tail, embellishing with his hind feet.

“Wow,” said Harold. “Order the drum.”

“Bob’s your uncle,” Miles said.