Mood:  suave

Morgan County's Hazardous Materials Unit is, ever since 9-11, routinely dispatched whenever any truck, train, or airplane cargo carrier crashes within the boundaries of this Tennessee political subdivision.  The logical assumption is that the materials were merely passing through and that the cargo could be almost anything.  Such was the case early this morning when the first reponders arrived at the scene.

Two train locomotives, both pulling six cars on behalf of Norfolk & Southern, derailed in a very rural area of a rural county.  One car turned over completely and four others jumped off the rails and began spilling their contents.  It was learned later that all of the cars were the property of a single vendor and that all were bound for the same destination in Atlanta.  Following is a simulated conversation between the Hazardous Material Unit dispatcher and the first of the First Responders on the scene.

"Come in Lobo, this is Big Mama."

"Lobo here, we are on scene Lucille."

"Which is where, Horton?"

"We're on the south slope of Buzzard Mountain, right where the tracks turn around to clear Waterfall Falls.  One car has turned over and is spilling its contents and a mass of bubbles are just a splashin' downhill.  Several other cars have jumped the rails and at least one of them has foam spillin' out of the top."

"Any idea what it is?"

"Not yet, we're in our haz mat suits, and are goin' to get the crews away from the scene so we can see what they know."

"Y'all be careful now, y'hear?"

"Big Mama, did y'all call Reverend Moon and dispatch him to the scene?"

"No Lobo, but you know how them guys sometimes monitor emergency channels just so they be there to be interviewed once the TV crews get there."

"Well, he's generally makin' a nuisance of himself.  He's gatherin' the crews together to thank Jesus for savin' them, before we've had a chance to even talk to anybody."

Some time passes.

"Big Mama, this here's Lobo."

"Have you secured the scene, and determined the source of the spill?"

"We have Big Mama.  I'm afraid there's not much of a threat in this spill, but I'm even more afraid we're gonna be here a long, long time." 

"Explain Horton."

"Well Lucille, it seems each of these here cars is full a beer, and all that's spilled out has been some of Milwaukee's finest. "

"Well, what's the hold-up on the clean-up?"

"It's that damn preacher."

"Reverend Mooney?  What'd he do?"

"First off, once he learned it was beer flowin' downhill like chocolate on the Big Rock Candy Mountain, he started a prayer meetin; to condemn the devil's brew.  Then he started helpin' the crew clean it up."

"So what's the reason you think it'll take a long time yet?"

"Lucille, they're only on the 74th bottle of beer, takin' one down and passin' it around."
  

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:32 PM EDT

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Mood:  sharp

Mr. Eugene Robinson wrote an Op-Ed in today's WASHINGTON POST which he entitled "Standing in the School House Door."  For those, dear reader, old enough to remember, Governor George Wallace of Alabama stood in the doorway and faced Attorney General Nicholas deKatzenbach (what a wonderful time it was, to have an Attorney General of whom one could be proud), attempting to block the entrance of Negroes into the University of Alabama.  Brothers Robert and Jack Kennedy did not have cell phones, so their communication amidst the presence of National Guard troops, and people of assorted opinions was critical and it was profound.  From that moment forward, it was clear that the Federal Government was going to assert its obligation to all its citizens, as so interpreted by the judiciary.  Mr. Robinson's concise commentary reflected upon the fact that what happens now will be despite the presence of the judiciary, rather than as a result.

Andrew Young, once the Mayor of Atlanta, once the US Ambassador to the United Nations, an ordained minister still, amongst many other positions of impact and honor, is a Democrat.  Almost an eternity ago, when Walter Mondale ran, unsuccessfully, for the Presidency, Mr. Young , not atypically, voiced his frustration at the ill-fated Mondale campaign, and referred to the hapless group as "smart-ass white boys."  Unsurprisingly, developed there overnight many a tee shirt and coffee cup with the acronym "SAWB" thereupon.

Frodo's point in recall of these two historical events commingled with the current spate of judicial guidance is to illustrate how little we either know or comprehend about the gains in human rights in our own country in just the past generation.  With sheer audacity of purpose, it is therefore uncommon to hear any SAWB speak favorably of "affirmative action," or "racial balance."  The term is "reverse discrimination," and it is reflected in the words of Chief Justice Roberts in his majority opinion which eliminates "race" as the factor used to establish student population diversity.  Frodo may, indeed, be both a Hobbit and a SAWB, but he believes very strongly that racial prejudice is quite prevalent, and it is much more pervasive than most will admit.

George W. Bush, to even his staunchest supporter, is recognized as a much lesser mind than most.  His inability to communicate, as well as his lack of knowledge on basic issues is obvious.  George W. Bush, a borderline student at best, attended two of the most prestigious universities in all of Middle Earth.  He won admission not because of his grades, or his test scores, or his good works; rather, he won admission as a "legacy."  His family fortune, their contributions to both Harvard and Yale, and the attendance of his familial ancestors gave him favored status.  George W. Bush took positions which might have otherwise been won by a woman, a "Negro," or even a "Latino."  In that sense, George W. Bush "stood in the schoolhouse door," and he thereby helped maintain the white, male dominance of power in society.

Although no one calls it admission by race, that is what it is, de facto.  Chief Justice Roberts probably knows that.  His awareness thereof is what either makes him a fool, or a liar.  Perhaps both.     

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:45 PM EDT

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Mood:  crushed out

Tammy Duckworth, Hillary Clinton, Ann Coulter, Paris Hilton, Laura Bush, Elizabeth Edwards, Liz Claiborne, Christie Todd Whitman, are all American women to prove newsworthy over the past several days.  Frodo is not surprised by the attention given to women under the microscope of notoriety, rather he is surprised only at the absence of one of the more obvious attention-getters.  How quickly, it seems, the mighty fall.

The Secretary of State, formerly the National Security Advisor, apparently was the heir-apparent to the current Occupant at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, at least in the mind of those planning for the royal succession.  Having already assured themselves of the righteous and the white male in their covey, they saw this as the cusp from which they could grab the mothers and the brothers, thereby cementing their hold on the reins of government for generations to come.  Something apparently happened however, on the pathway to the Lincoln Bedroom, for none of the ten announced candidates for the Republican nomination have even mentioned her name during the first two televised debates.  In addition, the Grand Ole Party has opened its doors to every aging movie star or prison inductee in the public eye in order to find some one, any one, capable of making a decent showing when next an election is held.

Colin Powell's successor seemingly stepped into an opportunity from whence she could do no wrong.  What has transpired is that she actually did nothing, and that may have impacted her decision-making about the future.  Madame Secretary has been oft-quoted that her "dream job" was to become Commisssioner of the National Football League.  That opportunity evidently was bypassed when she decided to assist her "husb" in the attainment of the New World Order as directed by the Neo-Cons and the Never-Coulds.  Frodo believes that she has her eyes on another position, far more desirable that that of the Presidency, and has been purposely avoiding the spotlight so that everyone does, indeed, forget about her.

Condi wants to be the next Bob Barker.

There is much to recommend and to document her for the position of Hostess for "The Price is Right."  Initially, she has the uncanny ability to simultaneously smile and to spout gibberish.  She can dress the part, simply because she owns more shoes than anyone not named Imelda Marcos.  She additionally has the capacity to apply her foreign affairs expertise to actually pricing the prizes which are now manufactured outside the United States, predominantly the result of her participation.  Finally, she certainly has a strong grasp of the entire concept of "selling out."

Frodo also fears what might happen should Madame Secretary fail in her quest for this position.  Job-hunting certainly is made a great deal easier if there are simply some accomplishments for the resume'.  Even the positon of "Greeter" at Wal-Mart requires that the incumbent actually have done something over the past eight years. 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:06 AM EDT

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Mood:  down

"Statutory Rape" is a term which one doesn't hear much anymore, it seems to have been supplanted either by alternative terminology or by the complete absence of sexual exploration by teen-agers.  There was a time in recent history when the words "15 will get you 20" were crystal clear in their reference.  How times have changed.

Genarlow Wilson, a talented young black athlete, with the verbal skills of a mushroom, was having a good time at the party.  Things got even better when the young female slipped her lips around his Johnson, and proceeded to do her best imitation of Monica Lewinsky.  Wilson's friends thought this such an amusing turn of events that they turned their videocamera toward the participants in order to mark the historic event for future audiences, perhaps on "You Tube."  The fact that the suckee was 15 years old did not seem to register with anyone.  Added on to that fact in subsequent testimony, the "consensual" act by an underage female seemed to make everything all kosher.  Genarlow got his rocks off, his friends got their movie, and soon the Mounties would get their man.

Genarlow Wilson was charged and sentenced to 10 years.  During the course of the trial, to complicate matters just a smidgen, the law was changed, and the felony which was, wasn't.  Fat lot of good that would do Wilson, and all those pending grants-in-aid to football-crazy institutions which necessarily went the way of the Great Auk.  That is until it became the "social injustice du jour." 

To make a long story very short, the Attorney General of the State of Georgia (which, these days, is sort of like the state of uncertainty) appealed a judges' order to free Wilson on appeal.  This coming after the youngster has now spent four years in the cooler.  The Attorney General, Thurbert Baker, argued that such a ruling could adversely impact the conviction of everyone with the same charge as Wilson, i.e. aggravated child molestation, and that the requirement for registration as a "sexual offender," might be procedurally challenged by all.  The uproar for justice to deal with the circumstances of one young man, versus the laws which govern all, crystallized when the publicity hounds came baying at the jailhouse door.

One "civil rights activist" called a press conference after discussing the strategic nature of the case with the Prosecutor.  This, an individual unknown to the defendant or his family, who had never had any contact with the defendant, his attorney, or anyone even remotely affiliated, was presenting himself as "deus ex machina" in behalf of Genarlow Wilson.  At the same time, the mother of the suckee appears on local TV and proclaims that the sexual act was "consensual," and that she saw no need for Wilson to suffer further for such an act.  Noted by Frodo is the fact that by going public in this manner the mother had "de facto" identified her daughter as a parrticipant in such an act to the entire viewing public, including everyone ever identified as a "sexual offender."  Not to be outdone of course, was the implication, nationally, that this was but one more example of "white man's justice" in the South applied to the poor and downtrodden. 

The Attorney General of Georgia, the aforementioned Thurbert Baker, is black.  Baker has argued that proper action by the Governor, the questionably honorable Sonny Perdue, to pardon Genarlow Wilson and to thereby remove the "sexual offender registration" requirement would quell the potential legal problems inherent in simply letting Wilson go because one judge said it was OK.  In the meantime, the forces of emotion over civilization demand Baker's head, that Wilson be freed, and all the past be forgotten.        

Frodo thinks the girl's mother is a fool.  He thinks the "civil rights activist" should be banned by the State of Georgia, and delivered to his new residence in Crawford, Texas.  He thinks that Governor Sonny Perdue should resign in order to run for Vice President alongside Sam Brownback.  He also hopes that Genarlow Wilson comes out of jail as something more than a made-for-TV soap opera icon.  Frodo hopes it happens soon, and that it is proper under the law.

Frodo also thinks that if John F. Kennedy were today publishing a new edition of "Profiles in Courage," that Thurbert Baker, Attorney General of the State of Georgia, should be included.  

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 10:09 PM EDT

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Mood:  celebratory

Legolas and Frodo traveled together to the Broad River Gelbvieh Farm to reunite with Boromir.  It had been many years since last the ancient warriors had stood together.  It was the first time since the passing of Boromir's Galadriel.

Upon the crest of the hill the flag held firmly to its position at half-staff.  No formal declaration was necessary, nor even common for one who served by waiting, an oversight in the system, for sure.  Wisps of clouds, like the tresses of a maiden, flowed gently behind as the backdrop to this quiet memorial for the Hostess of Broad River.

Boromir led from that spot down to the hay barn where they watched the newly-weaned bellow back-and-forth as their mothers wandered up-and-down along the dividing fence.  Following other cattle through the next pasture, the triumvirate stopped by the pond serving its refrigerant to the denizens who waded through its surface to relieve the heat of mid-day.  They stood under the oaks and the hickorys, and they talked of battles long ago fought while in service to the King.  Not much was said about opponents felled, rather it was of scars showing, inside and out, and of those with whom they had served about which much is today unknown.

Gathered they then for a cooling repast, and then to share in the bounty of that land in feast.  Words were spake about the Lady Galadriel and days to come that require not planning, nor lamentation, but a new level of normalcy.  As a tear fell, it was met by the wise and respectful silence of warriors with open ears, and hearts.

Commemorative pictures were ascribed to share with members of the Fellowship in absentia that day.  Hands were clasped, chests together, as only old warriors know how.  Promises were made as directions three led them away from their gathering.  The clouds had drawn back from the hillside and the flag waved to each traveler, in his own mind.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 7:57 PM EDT

Updated: Sunday, June 24, 2007 7:59 PM EDT

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Mood:  chillin'

The Surgeon General of the United States stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed, while Dr. Frodo conducted his examination.  Gently, he massaged the index and middle fingers on both hands of the patient, then worked his way up each arm slowly feeling for muscular development all along the way.  The young girl's twin sat next to the bed across from the spot where Dr. Frodo leaned across her sister's torso.  Their mother kept her hand on the bed, for support.

"Tell me if you feel it when I pinch your arm," queried Dr. Frodo to the young patient to whom he had been introduced by the Surgeon General.  "Do you feel anything now?"

"Just a little pressure."

"How about now?"

"No, not really."

Moving his hands back down to her wrist, he asked again.  "No," she said, "just a little wetness."

Going all the way up to the triceps, Dr. Frodo pinched again and the patient jumped.  "Ouch, I sure felt that."

"Good, thank you Ms. Bush.  It was very nice meeting you."

"Well, I'm not sure I can say the same, given the circumstances."

Frodo smiled, and said, "I understand.  Now if you'll excuse me, I'd like to talk with the Surgeon General for a few minutes, and then a little talk with your Mom.  I'll be back to talk with you when we get some of the tests back later today."

"Do you have any idea what's wrong?"

"Ideas yes, science no.  We'll talk more later, I promise."  Frodo was not just good, he was damn good.  He'd won the trust of the patient, at least for the time being.

Frodo and the Surgeon General stepped out into the hall and walked toward the Nurses Station together.  The Surgeon General did not have to meet his eyes, he had his own suspicions when he called for a consult with the leading Neurosurgeon in all of Middle Earth.  "She has the typically 18 months or less, before the ALS chokes her to death, " said Frodo.  The Surgeon General merely nodded, it was as he suspicioned.  "As you know Sir, there can be no confirming diagnosis without a brain tissue biopsy, and that, of course, is usually post-mortem."

"I figured that you, of all the authorities in Middle Earth, would. . ."

"You're right, I've seen enough cases to know.  It is ALS, and the President's daughter is going to die.  I suppose it would be presumptous of me to ask what you think he's going to say?  You know the Man, and I don't.

"Well, obviously, he's going to be very upset."

"You know what I mean."

"No, I'm afraid I don't."

"You know damn well what I mean.  If it hadn't been for him and his neolithic positions on using federal funds for Stem Cell research, then he would have at least the chance of effective treatment and potential cure for the disease which is going to kill his daughter.  That is, of course, assuming he won't even pursue the other options."

"I am afraid that the President will not approach any of those countries who have been utilizing Stem Cells in order to treat neurological disorders of this nature."

"How ironic, isn't it?  Both Iran and North Korea filled the vacuum he created when he closed the door on American efforts.  Now, to save his daughter's life, he would have to go on bended knee to those members of his "Axis of Evil."

"He won't do that."

"What about Mrs. Bush?  I understand she stood him up over the drinking, and told him 'Jim Beam or me,' years ago.  Won't she force him to be a father and not an ideologue?"

The Surgeon General merely shrugged his shoulders.  "Thank you, Dr. Frodo.  Would you mind. . ."

"You don't have to ask.  All you have to do is let me know when.  I will be there to help in any way I can.  Except, of course, for one thing."

"Oh?"

"I never want to see that son-of-a-bitch." 

"

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:36 PM EDT

Updated: Wednesday, June 20, 2007 9:38 PM EDT

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Mood:  sad

Tom Bombadil is a good neighbor.  When Frodo made the slight miscalculation regarding the six large pine trees, and the amount of mulch that would be piled in his driveway, it was Tom Bombadil who came to the rescue.  Tom Bombadil found a nearby SONIC when Frodo told him about Sir Gimlet, and a long and talkative evening ensued in the Gardens of the Shire.  It was Tom Bombadil who found and adopted the lost dog Savannah, and became her caretaker when she developed paralysis in her back legs.  It is Tom Bombadil who watches the political talk shows that Frodo misses, and who fills Frodo in on the facts about the continued incompetence of the Incomparable Moron.  Tom Bombadil is a mighty man, and is a special friend to Frodo and Sam.

There are few things in life that can bring such a man to tears.  The loss of a friend is such an event.

Scooter was a dog that was being fostered for adoption when Tom Bombadil found him.  Although he was shaggier than desired, Tom was taken by his constantly seeming smile, and his severe interest in tennis balls.  Scooter had some sort of problem in the hips and walked funny, but how he walked was the real kicker.  He never stopped, he just kept walking.  Even when he peed, he just kept walking.  He would visit Frodo for a scratch behind the ear, but Frodo had to move fast, because Scooter wasn't about to stop.  Tom was thrilled that he once again had a companion for walks in the woods, given that little Savannah and her cart weren't partucularly mobile.

Scooter began to develop signs of age, and incontinence, especially when he went inside the house of Tom Bombadil.  It takes a special person to live with two dogs unable to contain themselves.  As Frodo said early on, Tom Bombadil is a very good neighbor.

Tonight, Tom Bombadil cried because he had to do what no good friend ever wants to do.  He put Scooter down.  Scooter finally collapsed on his back legs and was unable to get up on his own.  He was no longer interested in the flight of his tennis ball, because it was now out of reach.  He could not, no matter how hard he tried, keep on walking.  There was distress in his eyes, as well as pain in his heart.  Tom Bombadil could not and knew that he would not tolerate the suffering of his friend.

Tom's veterinarian will cremate Scooter and his tennis ball tomorrow.  Frodo and Sam will stand with Tom Bombadil when the ashes are tossed to the winds.  It is Scooter's time  to walk on to a place where companions never say good-bye, and tennis balls never get lost.  Frodo believes that it must be a very wonderful place. 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:59 PM EDT

Updated: Monday, June 18, 2007 10:01 PM EDT

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Mood:  lucky

Frodo is going to try this one more time.  He has now lost four postings because this "server" receives all the data, then posts the full body of the posting as "Null."  At the same time, Frodo is receiving complaints, dear reader, that you are having difficulty posting comments because of some sort of numeralology which the "server" has used to verify your identity.  This means that Frodo will probably soon be insulting the intelligence and or competence of someone in Bangalore or Manila.  Every day Lou Dobbs makes more sense.

Frodo notes the importance of Father's Day, simply because he has often thought of the changes between the fathers borne just prior to the Great Depression, the sons that they sired just after the Great War, and those soon to be fathers.  The first were thrifty, and stubborn, and basically uncommunicative.  The next were determined to have nice things, more open-minded, and although willing, poor at communication.  The latter of three are spendthrift, intolerant of other opinions, and communicative only through a cathode ray tube.  Frodo's tale of this day, perhaps, makes some sense of the lessons each brings to the other.

Frodo was subjected to very frequent Sunday-drives in the family motorcar to visit relatives, relatives who hardly ever came to visit Frodo.  Increasingly, these forced marches, certainly no worse than the Bataan Death March to a hemi-Hobbit, were the source of growing rebellion.  Frodo became convinced that his father dictated these trips more for the opportunity it provided him to visit his favorite retail establishment, Dairy Queen, than to listen to Uncle Alvin procrastinate.  Frodo notes that Dairy Queen did produce the outstanding milkshake of the automobile age.

On one such outing, Frodo's father, as was customary, handed out change to the Hobbit and his sibling for them to purchase what that allotment would allow.  Frodo announced, upon receipt of the shiny Roosevelt dime, that he had no interest in ice cream, but that a flavored bottle of pop would meet his needs, and he was thinking exotic, like a Nehi Orange, a Grapette, or a Dr. Pepper.  Frodo's father announced that he could have anything he wanted, EXCEPT for a flavored bottle of pop.  It had, it seems, been recently announced that a 100% increase in the retail cost of said items had been enacted, and that instead of a nickel, said item now cost a whole dime.  Frodo's father knew but one way to deal with such corporate corruption.

Frodo thought this to be but one more example of parental intransigence and arbitrary policy solely designed to make him miserable.  He decided, therefore, to take matters into his own hands, and to purchase the flavored bottle of pop after all.  He decided upon the Nehi Orange, for the record. 

When Frodo removed the cold bottle of flavored pop from the machine, his father was standing behind him.   His father took the bottle from Frodo's hand and returned it into the rack of the machine.  Frodo went treatless, and he still had to go and visit relatives.

Time passed and there were no opportunities for either Frodo or his father to discuss the incident.  When next Frodo was again forced to endure the dreaded Sunday visit, he indicated no interest when the motorcar pulled into the parking lot of the Dairy Queen.  Nothing was said, bur Frodo felt that the length of the visit was stretched to the maximum, perhaps to prove a point.  Frodo did not care.  Soon, Frodo was able to build convincing cases to avoid the multitude of the visits, and not too much time passed before Frodo won his complete freedom.

Frodo and his father never discussed many things, and this incident was just one.  Frodo was a pretty dumb little Hobbit.  It is too bad that the lessons one remembers the longest, are the ones that hurt the most.

As for the next generation of fathers, how can one take anyone seriously when they go for walks in the woods with an iPod? 

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 5:28 PM EDT

Updated: Sunday, June 17, 2007 6:09 PM EDT

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Mood:  hungry

The A & W Drive-in on Route 11 in Madisonville, Tennessee, is the last of its kind.  It is the last A & W Root Beer drive-in with curb service in all of Middle Earth.  Frodo thought that was pretty cool, and absent the Memorials to the War Dead in the town square (which separated the deceased by race as late as World War I), he never really thought there was much else about Madisonville to merit his attention.  That is, until he was introduced to Allan Benton.

Benton is considered perhaps the greatest ham and bacon smoker living today.  Benton's bacon or prosciutto-style ham can be found on menus from the Highland Bar & Grill in Birmingham to the Restaurant Eugene in Atlanta.  What is even more interesting is the background of the 60 year-old who works 70 hours a week mixing salt, brown sugar, red pepper flakes, and patience into a ham before beginning the curing and smoking process.  Benton has a Master's in Psychology and was teaching High School when his pay checks weren't meeting his needs in 1973.  It was at that point that he bought the Hicks' Hams cinder-block building, and found five others to work with him in the new venture.

Touring the facility is a real hoot, and says a lot about why the South End of the Shire is the best.  "We have all the latest computer technology for the smokehouse," said Benton as he exhibited the hickory and apple wood stacked next to a small wood stove he bought in 1980 for $50 from his cousin.  "I've kept the vent tilted at the same angle for 27 years," he stated.

Making bacon started the way Allan Benton does it, before big-farm industry added nitites and nitrates to speed and cheat the process.  But moving 400-600 hams and 250-400 pork bellies a week is a lot for a small-scale organization, and none of Benton's children have any interest in taking over the family business.  Benton swears that as a "self-professed hillbilly," he'll never move or sell the business.  "It becomes who you are.  I've just been very lucky and I'm too dumb to quit." 

Frodo learned that it takes up to 15 months to "cure" a ham, and that Berkshire hogs are prized for their "marbling" and "tenderness."  Benton is not really sure if they make the best hams, but he keeps a supply "just in case they are." 

Frodo couldn't help but picture a new sign out front someday, perhaps it will read something like this "Hobbit Hams, Fit for a King."  Aragorn would love it.

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 8:39 PM EDT

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Mood:  hug me

The litter of puppies had been reduced to two; one of whom was predominantly some black on white, and the other predominantly some white on black.  Frodo was undecided about his choices until he felt something perched on his foot.  He knew that he had been selected, and that the selector was rather determined not to be left in that garage, all alone with his mother.  Naming an Australian Shepherd/Border Collie mix would not be difficult since Frodo was unacquainted with anyone from that continent, except for the character Paul Hogan played in "Crocodile Dundee."  A single syllable is most appropriate for a working dog, thus the predominantly black wonder dog became "Mick."  He became the Wonder Dog when "Baby" came along.

Ten years later, Mick, the Wonder Dog, is all male canine.  He is gentle and shy, except when another dog invades his space, then he becomes extremely possessive of anything and everything.  He learned a great deal in the "dog school" conducted by his surrogate mother "Lovey," and he is extremely accomplished in service to the Hobbit as his teacher required of her successor.  His best friend in the whole world is his adopted sister "Fiona," and they share everything from supper dishes to the rear seat in Frodo's motorcar.  When the much smaller Fiona calls for his assistance, he drops everything to ensure her safety, that is, except for the Baby.

Baby was originally a furry, light-colored, squeaky toy.  After several years of service as a substitute teat, the Baby became matted, dirty, and generally disgusting.  None of those factors impacted on the affection shared when Mick, the Wonder Dog, required some quiet time.  Eventually a tear developed, and much of the Baby's stuffing disappeared.  Frodo conducted replacement surgery with a similarly constructed artificial, and the implant held perfectly.  Now however, Baby is a floppy concoction that could have been used as some sort of alien life form in the early episodes of "Star Trek."

Frodo and Mick, the Wonder Dog, share many words in common.  "Squirrel," "ball," "pee," "Vitaman" (a tasty treat mispronounced in honor of Lucille Ball), and as one might expect, "Baby."  Mick, the Wonder Dog, frantically recalls where last he left his Baby whenever Frodo calls for a game of "Boob-Boom," so that he can mouth the Baby while his Hobbit scratches his back vigorously.  The Baby shares moments of physical pleasure as well as the silent solace of dog and the now-silent squeaky toy.

Frodo watches his friend with both curiosity and amusement.  Maybe Baby is a cigarette, or a glass of beer.  Maybe Baby is the feeling of being up against his real mother when she cleaned him while he fed from her breast.  Maybe Baby is just something that is his alone.  Frodo imagines that many of the same thoughts have been in the air since that wonderful night, epochs ago when first the canine came close to the fire.  It was a wonder then, and it is a wonder now.   

Posted by loveysdaddyga at 9:19 PM EDT

Updated: Wednesday, June 13, 2007 9:23 PM EDT

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