UNITED STATES—Saturday is not supposed to be this way, thought the Master, as he was launching gung-ho into the dance of Saturday morning quickly as it started, it was capsized.
He dearly paid for the brief lapse of acuity. This humbling realization arrived first by smell. How could it be? After so many past mishaps in pursuit of keeping the walkway safe for visitors, he trod right onto one of Luna’s gifts. He quailed before looking under the sandal. “Oh, for the love of Pete,” spouted the Master, with a pang of sorrow.
His morning quest for coffee had been delayed by circumstances in his control. Good grief. He surveyed sullied sandal sole, and for a few moments he was twisted in the talons of opposition of the job at hand. “Aw shucks,” he blurted out in response to gusher of ill will that rose within. Then he propped himself as he sat down on the porch to cleanse the offensive sole with a repurposed coffee stirrer.
Yes, the Master reassured himself that an off-beat Saturday start would instill the need to get on with the show, no matter what and stop blaming me, Luna, for everything that vexed him.
Then again from the get-go, that fatal Saturday, a clarion call for the Master to overcome stubborn resistance to open himself up to the omniscience called for when dealing with Luna’s considerable droppings, and also not go ballistic when one of the Chihuahua-Terrier’s petite contributions to earth resoled a small coin-shaped portion of my dress shoes.
It was a tall order for the Master to get out of his skull, if only for a moment, and acquire a little bit of omniscience. Just a teeny tiny bit. Paying attention when the sun was low, and phone/flashlight/Grand Inquisitor was about to die. To keep a sharp eye out and predict where I, Luna, might strike next.
To be continued…
