Belt Loops

There is a grain elevator in North Salem, KY which is run by a steam-powered belt.  I remember the days when I was a young Labrador in that quaint, black and white town.  I remember the afternoons chasing bumblebees inside the house, trapping house flies in the forest, rushing after caterpillars, whiskers flying.  I still recall the old farm boy Jacob, with his lower pant legs and shoes against which I nuzzled often.  When I was a dog, I didn't know his name or how to read or spell or do arithmetic, but I knew how to play tug of war with a big rope and eat from a saucer on the floor.  I loved that food so much.  Rarr rarrr grrr rarr.

The grain elevator stems from the ground, right out of a huge, grassy, flat plain.  The summers in North Salisbury were always dry.  Every caterpillar wore braids and had fuzzy, mobile nips.  The attention span of your average townspup was lower than my own.  My great, panoramic patience is what gave me the ability to notice caterpillars in such detail and to sit inside and hold in my urine while you humans were out partying and playing fun games and hanging out with your acquaintances and laughing while you abandoned me alone in the creaky plantation house.  One day a caterpillar went to sleep in a sleeping bag and then didn't move.  I know it died because I saw the small butterfly who ate it fly away out of the sack with all its gooey insides.  I've eaten caterpillars.  This butterfly bird was just about as happy as I was when I ate my first mosquito.  What a novice.

One hundred and thirty-three is the number of rungs on the ladder which leads to the top of the grain elevator.  That isn't very many, but Labradors can't climb ladders anyway.  Wasn't there some Jacob kid I was supposed to be talking about?  Ruff, ruff, ruff.... buff.  Jacob was a rude monster-child.  No, he was really nice.  There was a silver spoon in the barn which Jacob used to carry over to me.  I, being somewhat related to birds, enjoyed the shininess of the glad object.  I also enjoyed treats.  Jacob kicked the shit out of me that night.  Wait, no that was farmer Russell.  Yes, Jacob is the one who shot farmer Russell an email after the event, explaining to him why kicking dogs is "unsatisfactory."  When I was a dog I didn't know about email.

That night, the grain elevator stood strongly on a great hill in West Salem, Kansas.  It followed the stars as they circled around Polaris.  The grain elevator had some belt loops in the belt.  The end.  Take a chewed up bone from the back yard as a souvenir.  They are no concern of mine anymore, now that I am a seagull.