It's Friday again. The week, already shaky on it's new feet has slipped and skidded and landed hard on it's arse on the concrete, sighing softly because it's almost over. It's almost in tears, sitting there on it's bruised pride, shaking it's shaggy head. 'At least,' it's thinking, 'it's almost over for another few days.'
Mona was right across the street when it slipped and fell, and saw the whole thing. Saw Friday get weak stumble, and was there just as it made it to the unyielding ground. She leaned over, slipped her hands under Friday's arms and hoisted it back up onto it's feet, dusted off it's back and bottom (never one to pass up a quick pat of a nice bottom, that's our Mona) and gave it an impish peck on the cheek and a bright smile before dancing her way back across the street.
Is it anyone's fault that Friday took a quick peek down Mona's blouse when she leaned over to help?
Say It All, But Say It With Lean
When you're a Man
The World expects certain things of you.
Don't give The World all of it.
Keep it guessing. Keep it
on it's toes.
Once in a while, though,
The World will ask something of you.
Something you can either give or not give.
You'll be measured by your response.
Not graded, simply measured.
Once in a while a Woman in your life
will need you. Will need your strong back
(and perhaps your weak mind.)
She likely won't even say anything.
She'll just lean.
She'll lean back.
The elegant machinery of her skeleton
will relax, settle, come to rest
and the sweet-smelling silk of her skin
will contact yours as she leans back.
Whatever you do:
Don't leap about.
Don't turn it into a sexual invitation.
Simply stand there: a strong, trusted place for her to be.
Be her oak.
Borzoi do a funny thing. They lean.
They learn trust slowly, as slowly as they mature, but eventually they will come to accept you with that blind trust that all dogs seem to know. One day you'll be standing in the yard and your Borzoi will wander by and you'll reach down to pet it. You'll run your hands along the bumpy xylophone of it's deep ribcage, slip your fingertips along the Carpathian range of it's spine, and you'll draw your hands lovingly across that elegant, long face.
While you lavish that attention on your wolfhound your moving piece of Art Deco sculpture will lean against you. Not insistently, not like a screaming child flinging themselves against you for help against the vile attack of a honeybee. They'll simply lean their weight against you; a soft, curly-haired pressure against your thighs.
When Belle leans against me I cannot help but think of the tenuous chain that she is adding a link to. The chain that stretches all the way back to Russia some hundreds of years ago. I can see Peter The Great, the Czar of Russia standing on a steppe in the hinterlands. The snow is blowing, the wind is making a groaning sound in his ears. I can see his Borzoi, his pack of wolfhounds scattered across the steppe around him. Their long, sharp faces are turned into the wind sniffing deeply, eyes wide for any sign of movement. I can see one huge hound, his favourite, with a name that is a mouthful of difficult consonants which flow from Peter's mouth like water spilling over jagged rocks.
I can see his beringed hand reaching down from it's furry coat sleeve; a wide hand, rough with hunting and the cold, stroking the thick curls of the hound's chest, burying it's gnarled joints in the warm coat. When Belle leans I can see that hound leaning against it's master, against this powerhouse of a man bestride a mighty empire, and I feel his smile under it's bushy beard echoed in my own smile.
Don't forget guys and dolls that the Irrelephant Show won't be broadcast this weekend only, as I'll be in Texas, the land of sweat and cowboy hats and leather-skinned women. We will return the NEXT weekend, however, and on Sunday, June 1 we'll be on air with the one and only meno as a most honored guest! More reclusive than Thomas Pynchon, she's graciously submitted to being interviewed on the air!
Be sure and join us!