When You’re in the Mood for a Story
- about -
A Stinky Dog
Jersey January Jones wasn’t ready to wake up yet. She groaned and rolled over as the sunlight poured in through the threadbare curtains. Even though her eyes refused to open, her nose started exploring. She could smell the sweet, old-wood, well-oiled aroma of the bedside table in Grandpop’s guest room. She could smell the musty-dusty scent of the old quilt Grandma had made back in the day. Jersey pulled it up tighter to her chin. What made her eyes finally open was the smell that came next: bacon.
Grandpop always made pancakes and bacon the mornings after their special Grand Adventure days. This was perhaps the last Grand Adventure they would have for a very long time. Perhaps for forever. Jersey pulled the quilt over her head, willing the morning never to come.
“Jersey January Jones!” called the raspy voice of her grandfather. “Get up, get up. The morning has come and is greeting you with breakfast!” His voice was scratchy and low—like a well-worn record of a cello playing Bach.
Well, if the morning was going to come, Jersey was at least grateful it greeted her with syrup.
She thrust off her covers in one motion and rolled onto the wide-plank, uneven flooring and started pulling on her leggings and tunic. She loved this room. She loved the delicate pink-flowered wallpaper. She loved the faded apricot-colored curtains that hung in dusty pleats on each side of the window. She loved the way the sunrise made strange shadows as it bounced off the angles from the sloped ceiling.
Now that she was finally up, Jersey’s full nose and empty stomach made her hustle to pull the brush through her snarly brown hair. The sounds of Clair de Lune wafted up from the kitchen. She bounded down the stairs, each one creaking under her feet.
“Good morning, Jersey January Jones! And what sweet dreams did the good Lord give you last night?” Grandpop called to her as she took her seat at the kitchen table.
Grandpop always used her full name. He liked the way it rolled off his tongue. “Your name is like poetry,” he liked to remind her. Jersey wasn’t so sure why an old family name based on a cow breed and the coldest month of the year was poetry, but that’s the thing about poetry—it makes all sorts of ordinary things seem extraordinary.
Like:
“‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers — That perches in the soul — And sings the tune without the words — And never stops — at all —” [1]
“A tree that may in summer wear / A nest of robins in her hair;” [2]
“Cousin Woodpecker: How do you keep that bright red hat on while you work?” [3]
“Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you; Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here…” [4]
And stuff like that.
Grandpop placed a heaping stack of thick, puffy pancakes in front of Jersey—a pat of butter melting down the sides like golden lava. She quickly got to work pouring a gloop of maple syrup between each layer—her tried-and-true technique to evenly distribute the sweetness.
Grandpop’s shaky hand pulled out the chair across from her and he eased himself into it with a little huff.
“Oh, these bones are getting ricketier and ricketier, Jersey January Jones. Arthritis ain’t no joke. But, these ol’ hands can still come together in prayer. Join me, dear granddaughter.”
Jersey quickly put down her knife and fork, and grabbed Grandpop’s hands across the table, trying to ignore the loud hunger cries of her stomach.
“Good Lord, we come before you today to thank you for all the blessings at this table. For this food and this family, for the comforts of home—wherever that may be—and for Burt. We thank thee. Amen.”
“Amen,” Jersey echoed. Although, she didn’t know if she would count Burt as a blessing. She had almost forgotten about Burt. She glanced under the table. Yep, there he was, like always—wedged between Grandpop’s chair and the wall. He glanced up at her and his droopy tongue lolled out in a wheezy, greeting pant.
Everything about Burt was droopy. Droopy ears that dragged on the floor when he shuffled out the door to “do his business” and back again. Droopy eyes that continually sagged red and sad and drippy, even though Grandpop insisted he was “the happiest dog that ever did live.” Droopy skin that slumped and bagged when you pet him—like you were smoothing down his wrinkles more than stroking his fur.
And he was stinky. Jersey was glad the scent of bacon was so strong in the kitchen. Burt was the one smell in Grandpop’s house she didn’t like. Grandpop said that everybody got a little musky when they got that old, but Jersey disagreed. Grandpop smelled like bonfires and dusty-musty quilts and pancakes. Burt just smelled like rotten leaves and a pair of week-old sweaty socks from gym class you found at the bottom of your schoolbag.