Well, Well
BY R.W. O'ROURKE I JULY 24, 2008
Lassie perched her front paws on the rocky lip of the opening and peered into the murky depths of the only source of drinking water on the property.
"What were the odds?" she wondered. This was the third time in as many weeks that the little twerp had disappeared down the well.
"Run...(run), get...(get), help...(help), Lassie...(bitch)", the cries echoed up from the hand dug cavern.
She wanted to ask him how he'd managed it this time. It had to be a record. Was there some sort of "twerp" magnet in the well? Was he really that inept? Couldn't he remember where the well was from one week to the next?
"Woof", she murmured unenthusiastically, as she hopped down and ambled back toward the house.
Her tongue lolling, saliva hitting the ground in pools, little Timmy's Mom paused in her chores to scan the horizon and dab her chin with the crisply starched hem of her apron. She had grown accustomed to seeing the family dog wander back into the barnyard alone.
"Where's Little Timmy?" she called, as if she didn't know.
Lassie rolled her eyes, jerked her head casually over her right shoulder and continued her trek across the yard to her bowl.
"Again?"
***
Brushing aside a labor-dampened forelock, Timmy's Mom marveled at her son's inability to remain conscious, or above ground. She had always prided herself, if not on actual grace, at least on coordination. In her youth, she had harbored a secret fantasy of becoming a dancer. Countless childhood hours lost, forever, in the reflection of a full-length mirror behind her parent's bedroom door. Before this mirror she made her debut in every major ballet and Broadway show of the time. But, no matter how deeply she gazed into the looking glass she couldn't see what others saw. While she felt light as air, the casual observer would wince at the forced movement and obvious painstaking effort involved in the exercise.
When confronted with the truth she blamed her feet. She had never really forgiven them.
She wondered if her son was all right. She wondered why, if he wasn't down the well, he was usually knocked unconscious by a low-hanging limb or strategically placed boulder. And, in the back of her mind, she wondered how many other little girls' dreams had been dashed by the burden of an extra toe.
"Better go get Grandpa, girl." It was Lassie's turn to wince.
***
"Mmph!"
Either Grandpa wasn't terribly happy, or the overgrown brush that hid his mouth had grown thoroughly disgusted with its position atop the old man's lip. With every "Mmph" the moustache grew more animated. And moist.
Grandpa didn't talk much. Over the course of his 70 odd years he had consumed an entire depression sandwich, served up between two World Wars, and was, by now, fairly fed up with humanity.
Some of the folks in town thought he was a bit 'round the bend. The truth would have come as quite a shock to most of the population.
They didn't know the half of it.
His best friend was a wedge of cheese, which he kept comfortably stashed in a bedside drawer. It had become so old it was past the point of smelling, and the mold was so abundant it had formed a little toupee. And for all the attention lavished on it, Grandpa was pretty sure the cheese had grown weary of his company.
***
Timmy had to pee.
Under ideal conditions, a stray thought venturing near the vicinity of Little Timmy's mind stood little chance of finding anything solid on which it might gain a firm grip. With the bladder running interference, it was pointless even to try. Ideas and Theories pulled out their maps and searched for alternate routes that bypassed entire counties surrounding the boy, abstract pioneers forging new paths of enlightenment.
The water swirled and sloshed in a sort of quiet taunting under Timmy, adding greatly to his pain.
***
Lassie trotted alongside Gramps down the well worn, literally, path. They were toting the equipment needed to rescue Timmy, because in rural areas people toted things instead of carrying them. She pondered this and other subtleties as they made their way to the well. She began to wish, as dogs are prone to do on such outings, that she had grown up in the city. She wished her bowl were a nice mauve as opposed to the ugly green thing she was forced to eat from. She wished she had a master who didn't spend the majority of his time in subterranean contemplation.
All things considered, she wondered if they shouldn't just be bringing Little Timmy some food and toss it within his reach. Chances are he'd be down there again by morning.
She decided that the cheese had it pretty easy. It was a dog's life.
"Woof," the old man agreed.
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