The Runt of the Litter

‘You’re whacked in the head’ she said, my grandmamma said. On account of I don’t do much around the house, nothing really, which really means a lazybones. She never says what she wants to or in a tone of voice that sounds proper for what she’s saying, or trying to say. Anyhow, I don’t really care all that much, really, cause she's suppose to do the housework and cooking, that is when she’s not smoking roll-you-owns on the porch behind the house where the dog sleeps. Sometimes, when it’s too hot and muggy, I sleep out back with the dog, curled up in his stomach like the runt of the litter. Their dog was a runt, so little that his momma forgot all about him, so my grandmamma had to feed him with a baby’s bottle and an eyedropper when he was really little, just born little. She’d wrap him up in a car-blanket and sit him down beside the chair, the one she smoked in and watched television in. He’d be all squirmy and making all these runt noises like he was trying to say something but couldn’t, couldn’t say how he wanted to say something. My granddad pretty much ignored him, really, and even when he did look at him, which he did from time to time, he’d make a scowly face or puff out his cheeks like he was going to blow so hard on him he’d blow him to Kingdom Come. No one I know knows where Kingdom Come is so I guess my granddad didn’t really mean it or know where Kingdom Come was anyhow. I guess the front veranda was as close to Kingdom Come as they’d ever been.