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essays and anecdotes of small towns and open roads

Writer's pictureHabranthus

Spring Notes

Updated: Apr 29, 2023




March

On what I am sure was the windiest day of the year, my dogs got into a trash bag left outside. My trash was blown for three counties. I just moved into this house, and I am trying to make a good impression. Now I’ve got to go pick up trash in the neighbor’s pasture. Dang those dogs!



April

On my way into town, I passed a pasture where some Spring calves were running around like puppies, jumping and playing, kicking up their legs. So adorable, I got the idea I could rustle me a baby cow. The only thing that stopped me, besides riskin’ a hangin’, is that I didn’t think I could catch one. They’ve got four young legs, I only have two old legs.



May

A little black spider moved into my bathroom. He looked a little furry and sometimes he would scrunch up with his legs underneath him, so cute. He hung out around the window and sometimes on the floor, eating mosquitos I hoped. I loved him and considered him family. On one middle-of-the-night trip to the bathroom, I stepped on something that crunched a little. I turned on the light and it was him. He was dead, of course. But I gave him a decent burial at sea in the toilet, wrapped in his little toilet paper coffin.



This is not actually my little friend, but one of his surviving kin folk.


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