That’s Marshal Dillon Dingle up there.
Stuck Marshal Dillon Dingle.
Scene: I’m sitting at my kitchen counter and – having learned from past missed opportunities including everything from how fast Fred can make it to a broken egg on the floor (answer: faster than my nearly perfect husband can hurl a pancake batter-coated spatula at him, sending itty bitty batter splatters all over the kitchen cabinets, refrigerator, and ceiling), to the five seconds of perfect light before the sun sets in my back yard – I have my handy dandy camera right next to me as I write. I am taking a sip of my coffee when I hear the dulcet voice of Marshal Dillon Dingle in the other room. The growly whiney voice that indicates struggle. Oh, and by the way, ‘dulcet’ is a word I had to look up. It popped into my brain and I had to make sure it fit. The definition is, ‘adj. (esp. of sound) sweet and soothing (often used ironically)’.
I absolutely used it ironically.
I exaggerated the ‘sweet and soothing’ part.
I just wanted to be clear in case you haven’t read anything about Marshal Dillon Dingle previously.
So, anyway, I look up and to the left and I don’t see anything. But I hear him, and I’m certain I’m looking in the right direction.
Then I see movement.
The flash of a back foot.
The swish of an upside-down tail.
I tilt my head, German-Shepherd-with-a-question style, and realize that Marshal Dillon Dingle is completely inverted – just like Maverick and Goose with the Russian MiG – minus the Russian MiG, plus my big comfy couch. Also, with less drama as the missiles attached to my couch are usually unarmed.
Marshal Dillon Dingle was also unable to maneuver.
Like, at all.
I could hear him growling and snapping at the pillows that had somehow managed to cover his head, but other than his paws and tail flashing back and forth, the dog couldn’t move.
So I grabbed the camera and started snapping. Sure, because it was a cute and funny thing to capture, but also because my family often requires more than my word when it comes to something awesome that happens in my world.
Sometimes, when they react with less-than-I-would-expect enthusiasm to my described situation where hilarity inevitably ensured, I flash to that scene in A Knight’s Tale with Heath Ledger (which, by the way, has a great soundtrack. And it’s even wicked literary when you realize that it’s based on Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. Okay. Loosely based).
But anyway, there is a scene where Ulrich Von Lichtenstein (ne, the peasant, William Thatcher) is riding on a horse along the path, flanked by his attendants (ne, his two friends, Ronald and Wat (That was way too much detail. I just wanted to use ‘ne’ again)) and they come across a naked Jeffrey Chaucer, who’s line is “Jeffrey Chaucer’s the name, writing’s my game.” (brilliant!). So, anyway, later on Chaucer is discovered to have lied about a gambling problem he has and his response is, “I’m a writer! I give the truth scope!” And I love that line. And I say it all the time. Because, as you know, I have been a writer for like three months at this point.
And my family has now decided to use one of my favorite lines against me.
When I come home with a story that they did not participate in, and I am laughing and giving them all the details, I am eyed suspiciously and often asked if I am “…giving the truth scope?”
What the heck?!
Because usually I am trying to dial the scope back a little.
Because REALITY is sometimes so bizarre that I’m pretty sure you won’t believe it. This is why I often find myself writing things like, “You couldn’t make this shit up, people.” Like, for instance, when I recently was telling you about the time Grampa gave me the gift of a poo porch. Remember that one (just in case: …on loving an old yankee man )? I had to edit the frack out of that because the mere mention of the porch opened a Pandora’s box of stories in my brain. So I originally included the mailbox and the bird houses, and the way to hide your valuables so that no one could ever find them. But I took all those other things right out of the article, because it had become so unbelievable that I was certain that it would look like I was, yes…
Giving the truth too much scope.
So when Marshal Dillon Dingle got stuck in my big comfy couch (by the way, to my gentle Canadian readers, I know that there was a children’s show called The Big Comfy Couch. I do not own that couch. This is my own big comfy couch and it came to me without the requisite creepy clown girl and her ‘dolly molly’ (shudder)). Anyway, when Marshal Dillon Dingle got stuck in my couch, I knew I was going to need photographic proof because even my dogs are starting to doubt some of the truth of some of my stories.
And I got proof on film…well…on digital card thingie.
What did I do with it?
I ran to the only one home with me at the time.
And I said, “You are not going to believe this Blaze but Marshal Dillon Dingle is stuck in the couch!”
And she didn’t even move until I showed her the screen on my camera and flipped through a few pics of Marshal Dillon Dingle’s belly and upturned feet.
And then she got up, stretched, and walked slowly into the family room and checked it out for herself.
That’s the truth.
I took pictures of that part too, and you can see them below. Here is a blown up picture of Blaze checking out the situation:
And then making sure her eyes aren’t deceiving her:
And then getting exasperated and seeing what will happen:
And I could totally tell that she didn’t believe me when I first approached her with the story. But then, because I had photographic proof, she believed me and eventually helped me get him unstuck (She carried his back left foot while I took care of the rest of him).
Now, I can’t promise I will have photographic proof of everything that I tell you in the future, but I can give you my word that I will try. Like, when I started to write today, I thought I was going to be telling you about my car ride back from New York yesterday. I pulled over to the side of the road on a whim to take a photo of Mount Manadnock in New Hampshire, and heard a strange noise coming from the water. I immediately imagined what it would be like to capture a photo of the Loch Ness Monster, but then thought quickly that Nessie lives in Scotland and, unless there is a huge underground river the size of a plesiosaurus, she would probably not be in a New Hampshire lake. But then, right in front of me….
Well, you be the judge:
No. Scope. Necessary.
Thanks for readin’.