Dog on a Bone

My grandmamma cheated, my granddad played blind, like a dog on a bone. Anyhow our dog burned up in the house fire, under the couch next to the television that was always on. I think that hurt my feelings almost more than my mom and dad burning, cause at least the dog liked me and didn’t call me fatter than a house. It’s odd, in a weird sort of way, how the house burns down without me in it, me being fatter than a house and all. It always stymied me that gip-rock would burn brighter than a 4th of July fireworks. That’s what I was told; anyhow our house was crappy, one a those stucco ones with a shitty yard in a shitty neighbourhood. I don’t figure most people missed it when it burned, all clapboard and shingles and our television still on. ‘Cats in a hotbox’, is what my granddad used to say. That’s the way he used to talk when he wanted to get my attention, even if it didn’t make a lick of sense. Of course I’d listen, even though I knew he was making fun of me, which was better than being called fatter than a house or dumber than horse sense. I can’t well at all remember exactly when he’d say it, but when he did I’d prick up my ears and pay heed. You see he liked his Triple Star Whisky, from a kitchen glass, a green one with a paler green label on it. My grandmamma didn’t all at all like it when he said dumb stupid stuff like ‘cats in a hotbox’, but put up with his shenanigans cause he was getting blinder and deafer by the day, and probably wasn’t aware of what he was saying. She used to tug on the strings of her apron whenever he said something improper or dumb, or simply screw up her eyes and say something herself under her breath. The way I saw it, it was better than playing pinochle, even if she played honest and didn’t bend any of the rules. My aunt had these tiny little vials of medicine she took with juniper water, something to do with having rickets when she was young and never getting proper medical help. I guess back then there wasn’t much medical help at all, and that that there was, was probably more harm than good. You’d see kids with wooden logs between they’re legs buckled at the hips with straps and hinge-screws. It was on account of the fact that they’re legs hadn’t grown properly, either they was all bendy and frail, or twisted round like willow branches. Either way, they had to scrabble and chip they’re way down the street, some using wooden crutches, others holding onto the arms of they’re mothers or a school friend.