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

 

 


About the Author

Leland Jamieson lives and writes in East Hampton, Connecticut, USA. Recent and forthcoming work appears in numerous print and Internet magazines. His first book, 21st Century Bread, can be previewed and is available at www.lulu.com/lelandjamieson.

 

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