My family and I got a dog at the Humane Society, way down the hill in the former mining metropolis of friendly Nevada City. The dog came with the name of Humper. The dog won’t come to Fido, or Spot, or Finkelstein. So, Humper’s name has been left unchanged through the fourteen months that we’ve had him, even though the dog really won’t come when he’s called, period, anyway.
One day during Jackalope Hunting Season in the Great Milton Berle Forest, while I was working on my converted Ford Edsel truck, uh, wagoner sort of bush vehicle with a three-and-a-half-inch-lift kit and Reese hitch portable winch -- using Ramjet’s tools and Ramjet’s garage -- Humper ran out into the dirt road after a woman and her dog.
The lady, clad in orange -- vest and orange hat -- was walking east and uphill at a phenomenal clip with her yipping mutt in tow. The dog was wearing an orange vest, too. I dropped my tools, er, Ramjet’s tools, and Ramjet and I ran after Humper. But, before we could arrive at the scene of the, ah, unfolding series of crimes, Humper started to wrestle around with the orange lady’s dog. Unfortunately, while trying to separate the dogs the orange lady fell down, hard, on the frozen ground, and with such force Ramjet later told me that he winced in abject commiseration. Of course, this was the point that I started to plan my retreat.
At that exact moment, having once been in Naval Intelligence a long time ago, Ramjet started waving his arms around and yelling excitedly at the dog, “Humper. Hump-er. Doggone it, Hump-er.” Though, there is some small disagreement between the two of us over who actually yelled the most idiotic part of this dialogue --
I remember distinctly it was Ramjet, the glorious fool.
The incensed orange woman struggled to her feet, eyes aflame with anger:
She screamed for all the world to bleeping hear: “Hump me, will ya?!” and she booted Humper for all she was worth...
And, when the orange lady came back by twenty minutes later, well, we all hid in the woods. -- from Of Jackalopes and Househusbands by Kevin O'Kendley
"In 1621, the Plymouth colonists and Wampanoag Indians shared an autumn harvest feast (in Massachusetts) that is acknowledged today as one of the first Thanksgiving celebrations in the colonies." - History.com/ Google
Please give to Feeding America: 35 East Whacker Drive, Suite 2000/ Chicago, Illinois, 60601/ 800-771-2303
A carbuncle is a roiled mass of skin or a beautiful gem. The incredible gem is pictured in the logo below and at the bottom of the short story section...
Kevin O'Kendley is the owner of Carbuncle Moon, and the author of all original material -- cartoons, blogs, shorts, essays, articles -- on the website (there has been a very limited editorial input in some of my work). All quoted sources are noted. I am responsible for all posts. The only blogs not time-dated are those advertising nonprofits. All nonprofits are vetted, investigated, though after the summer of 2018 my vetting has lapsed: (6/1/21).
Kevin O'Kendley: P.O. Box 172, Winterport, Maine, 04496, and 200 P Street, A-32, Sacramento, California, 95814, email@example.com.
Technical help is provided by an evolving computer genius, my son, Conor O'Kendley: A good kid with a great heart who can be reached at P.O. Box 172, Winterport, Maine, 04496. (Conor is in the Navy now, a swabby)
Photography provided by a visual artist, my daughter, Caitlin O'Kendley: a young woman with a beautiful soul. (Caitlin is in college now, a media-journalism student)
If your nonprofit is advertised on this site and you wish to have it removed please contact me at the above listed snail-mail or email address or use the contact form on the website.
If you download a blog, cartoon, a short story -- or for any other reason -- and wish to donate $ to this site, its author and technical support personnel, please send donations to above listed addresses payable to Kevin O'Kendley. My family and I could use the dinero.
All cartoons, blogs, and short stories are for sale.