Free Standing Water

It rained yesterday in Smalltown and the streets are flooded. That's not unusual. The drainage system in this town is no system at all. After even a brief cloudburst, it's advisable for me to wear my waterproof sandals that I originally bought to wade in streams up in the Hill Country. Myra McDonald, the church secretary, told me to get used to it. "All someone has to do is spit in the street and there's a flood," she remarked. Myra, by her own admission, loves to talk and she's entertaining enough that I enjoy listening to her. Today she was complaining about her husband Billy-John. Apparently Billy-John had complained to her first, saying she talked all the time and never let him get a word in edgewise. Myra exclaimed to me, "I told him that if he'd just tell his story right the first time, I wouldn't have to tell it for him!"

This town is going to the dogs. Literally. Actually it has already gone to the dogs. I came out of the house after the rain yesterday and sniffed the air for the expected scent of freshness. I inhaled instead the soothing, refreshing essence of dog poop. Animal control is just as nonexistent here as drainage is, so the dogs rule. There are dogs in the yards, dogs on the sidewalks, dogs in the alleys, and dogs lying in the streets napping. Yesterday I saw a big, droopy Basset Hound/Dachshund mix standing in the street, staring at me. He was in no hurry to go anywhere. He had bloodshot red eyes, a dappled brown coat, big dangling ears, and his body was as long as a freight train.