Butch

The fire was struggling. Lapping lower and lower into the elevated fire pit. The shadows of those milling around the collective camp site waving back and forth.

                I had a chameleon. Named him Butch, he was cool as shit.

Laughter…from most but not all. The audacity of people to laugh at the name chosen for a pet when they know damn well at home is a poodle, Boogerbutt. Maine Coon cat, Furby McTusslemut. Parrot, Templeton.

The fire painted shadows across her soft white cheeks, dancing dark ghosts sliding back and forth on her dimpled visage. The porcelain like tone of her skin such a stark contrast to the dark, dank, dreary night air that hung over the festival with a humid foreboding feeling of dread. We partied on none the less, no turning back now, might as well enjoy the cold beer and warm converstion before those two switched places. The first thing that struck me was plaid. I enjoy plaid. She wore it well. Properly sized shirt hanging off properly sized feminine shoulders. Huggable. Her hair, a curly mess. Only appropriate after a 10 hour trip crammed into an estrogen packed SUV. We're here to camp, paddle and party, not parle with beauty queens and princesses. Although, so far as survivors of a 10 hour car ride go, she's wearing a smile brighter than any tiara or royal jewel. Her dark framed glasses accent her cheek bones, but hide the eyes. Expressive, pleading and brilliant her peepers peer perillously through her lenses.

                I had to go away and left Butch with my cousin, and when I came home he was dead.

More laughter. Most but not all. The audacity of people to laugh at a pet dying. My hamster, Molly lived 4 years. That's a long time for a critter so small. I had to have her put down when I was 22. Twenty two towering years, Six feet and 2 Inches. Cradling in one hand a small, almost perfectly still, Molly, black and white. Panda Bear Hamster. She would move her feet. I could feel her little nails through my callusses. The Doctor delicately delivered devastating news. I chose mercy and sent My Molly off to sleep. All six foot 2 inches of me heaved and shooked as I left the Drs office with Molly in her purple plump palatial eggplant sleeping spot. I buried her myself next to my cat Mittens. I cried the whole time. Hands dirty with red Virginia clay, making clown make up streaks on my forehead and cheeks. Help was offered and duly refused. She was mine, this was my chore. She rests under a big oak tree. Tucked tightly into her eggplant, wrapped in a towel and in a nike shoebox.

 

I didn't laugh about Butch. Butch and Molly and Mittens wouldn't appreciate it from their side of the looking glass.