GRENDEL AND ME (1109)
Bernie Moore

I hate cute kits.

I was talking to Grendel the other day. We were on a recon patrol and he chanced upon a delicious pheromone enhanced bush. He sampled it rapturously with his mouth open (cats have a “Jacobson’s organ” in the roof of their mouths specially designed for such information. I may have incorrectly referred to it as a “Cooper’s gland in a previous post.) He stood frozen for a while as the delights of the encounter enveloped him.

“Boss, you ought to smell this pXXXX.”

Hereupon I had to correct his political.

“You can’t use that word in polite company.”

“You’re polite company?”

“Irrelevant” You know this conversation may be recorded for quality control and customer service.”

“You humans abuse language. Why can’t you just say what you mean? “

“Because there are some who say what is acceptable and what is not.

“Another thing,” quoth he, “You humans use language to hurt each other. Why, if you want to hurt somebody, not just wrack their faces with your claws?”

At which point he looked at my recently manicured (self) fingernails and sighed, “Never mind. Still, we use language to warn others so they don’t get hurt. If they don’t heed the warning then the consequence is on them. And we also use musical language to serenade our… now what am I supposed to say here?”

“Well, I have heard that humans that run dating services for amorous felines call the ladies Queens.”

“Queens? That’s rich. Especially when you consider what those pimps call female dogs.”

“Alright, that’s enough,” I replied sternly, pulling his leash away from the bush as he fell into a funk of brooding silence.

But it got me thinking about odors; and especially the ones of fall. There was a faint scent of crushed dried leaves about which stirred memories of long ago autumnal rituals. The sounds and smells of another era.

When fall meant falling leaves and the sound of the rakes that herded them to the side of the road where we burned them. Sometimes we created mountainous ranges the length of our property and started the fire on one end and coaxed it to the other with the rake. For safety, there was the garden hose, rubber of course, and no recollection of ensuing disasters. Let’s face it; fire is fun, and we loved the rituals that nurtured it to our own ends.

Sometimes the burning leaves had a pissy smell to them, but I don’t remember whether it was while they were burning or just rotting.

Sometimes in early the morning stillness I could smell the labors of a distant raker, way out of earshot, but within range of the drifting currents of air.

Today it’s quite a different story. The smells come from the roaring exhausts of powerful internal combustion engines mounted on the backs of hardy young men blowing leaves at hurricane force. When all the leaves have been herded streetside a behemoth juggernaut lumbers up the street wailing like thousand Banshees, sucking up everything into a two foot maw.

The days of sitting on front porches in the evening watching the neighbors go by is so archaic we don’t have front porches any more; besides the neighbors go by so fast you can only recognize the vehicle not the people in it.

Though much is gained; much is lost. I wouldn’t mind a fall’s afternoon scraping leaves into a pile and the ceremony of burning. Though Grendel’s sense of smell is 14 times greater than mine I don’t think he gains that much. Besides he will never know the scent of a reef. Life has its compensations, eh, Teddy?