Sink
Hole
by
Leland Jamieson
DeLand,
Florida.
In Memory of G.M.P.
and E.T.P.
“He
needs to sniff
his PJ’s,
sheets, or sweats,”
said Chip, the
canine officer.
“He
wets,
most every night.
They’re
in the wash,”
she said.
“Then shoes
or socks, a bathrobe,
jacket, bed-
side carpet where
he climbs in,
in bare feet?”
(The bloodhound,
Gus, looked like
he’d like
red meat.)
Thus
she and Paul (her
neighbor and attorney)
set off behind
the dog and Chip.
Odd journey.
They hiked past
sycamore, live
oak, and pine
all shagged with
Spanish moss.
Not yet a sign.
Waist-high palmetto
— with its
rattlesnake —
engulfed her heart
with fear and
made it ache.
Ahead,
Gus plunged nose
down into the
scrub.
Chip stumbled,
snapping fronds
— a great
hubub —
while Paul and
she stood watching
from the road.
The sun bore down
its overbearing
goad.
“Thanks,
Paul, for your
great help . .
. the dog and
all.
So sad. He’s
drifted downhill
since last fall.”
“It
is sad, Helen,
seeing him unwell.
I’m glad
to help. For you
this must be hell.”
She dropped her
eyes against the
gnats and tears
which fluttered
there, against
her many fears.
A far-off siren
wailed, drew closer,
died.
An ambulance drew
up, stopped at
their side.
“Paul,
Chip’s found
Mr. Peek. He’s
fair, but weak.”
“That’s
great, Jack! This
is Mrs. Ellen
Peek.”
“How-do,
Miz Peek —
by radio Chip
said
he seems confused,
not quite in his
right head.
Exhausted. Scratched
up a bit. Stumbled.
Fell.
No broken bones
as far as he can
tell.
He’s
in the bottom,
a hundred yards
in there.
We’ll bring
him out, Miz Peek,
don’t you
despair . . .
.”
©
2007 by
Leland Jamieson
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