I am in my room on this fine rainy Saturday afternoon curled up on the bed with one of my favorite books. It isn't a real fancy book. It is just one of the turn the brain off and relax books. The plot isn't going to win it any prizes for literature, but it is fun all the same and I like it.
It was a book about a young man on a quest. This young man has a huge adventure and gets the girl. He does magic and swings a sword. He meets fantastic creatures. Pete wished that these things were his. Why couldn't I swing the sword or cast the spell or get the girl?
Probably cause I am reading this type of book. But either way, I would really like to have the opportunity to do this. But it is fantasy.
I polish off the chapter I am reading and I head down the kitchen to make a cup of hot apple cider. Hot apple cider has to be one of the best things to chase away cold feet. That and wool socks. As cup of cider turns slowly around in the microwave, I stare out the window watching the rain fall on the ground and picnic table. As it hits the table, the water sprays and splashes into puddles and trickles off the edge.
There I see myself standing in this field of tall grass. The water is falling, hitting my plate mail. The water bounces off. The water beads up and trickles off my elbow. I shift my weight slightly to free up my arm so that I get my axe ready. The sound of thunder is off in the distance. But it isn't thunder. It's the sound seven horses galloping toward me. The ride out not to greet me as a friend but to destroy me for what I could be. In my mind, I pull of my favorite spell and prepare to . . .
BEEP BEEP BEEP.
It never fails. Get to the good part in any day dream and something snaps you out of it. Who knows, maybe I will get to finish this some other time. I open the microwave door and take out my cup of cider. I reach over the spice rack and grab the bottle of cinnamon and add it to my cup.
With cup in hand, I walk over to the thinking chair. The thinking chair was an idea of one of my ex-roommates from college. Although with him, I would have called it the stinking chair as he had a farting problem. But the idea is to place a chair in the most conducive area not to think. In this case, my thinking chair was placed near the window that has a view of the squirrels that would fight at the bird feeder. I guess the idea is that as your mind wanders you can get some good thinking done.
I sit down in the chair slowly as not to spill any of my cider. As I lean back in the chair I watch a small red squirrel try to oust a large black squirrel who has taken up a guarding position at the bottom rung of the bird feeder. Actually it was less of a fight than that. The red squirrel would just sit on the ground and chitter at the black squirrel that would just ignore the red. And to make matters worse, the red squirrel was getting soaked as the black sat under the small porch of the bird feeder.
As the approaching horses get closer, I grab the reins of my nearby steed, Chip. However this is no ordinary steed. It is called a storral. It looks similar to a squirrel only standing seventeen hands to the shoulder. I sling myself up onto its broad back and slowly stroke it's red fur to reassure it of the upcoming fight.
I have always found the storral to be much more useful than horses in a fight. They tend to be more fearless and better fighters. They could use their chisel like teeth to take a hunk of flesh out of their opponents if need be. But they are hard to capture and even harder to train, but they bond for life with the one that has trained it.
As a boy, I was lucky to have a father who loved this animal and to take it upon himself to work toward the raising of young storral. He gladly taught me his trade for I was to take over for him when he was done. He should be retired now if it weren't for the bandits. I suppose, I should thank them however for they awoken in me things I did not dream could have existed. A natural skill and talent at things that I had not been taught at home but only on my road to revenge. A road, I hope would soon end.
As the horses draw nearer, I grab my shield from Chip's side and slide my axe from it's loop on my back. I flex and hear the creaking of the leather and steel of my armor. I can see the enemy reaching for their weapons as well. It is a good day to die. It is a better day to kill any responsible for my father's death. I give Chip a kick to start . . .
I shake myself to start as I look down to see Panthro staring up at me with the, “you need to give me some food look.” So I get up and walk over to the location of said ThunderCat food dish. Panthro got his name from the look of him which is definitely panther like. Of course, now that he is a little older the name is even more appropriate as he has the ability to make the ground shake everytime he decides to run or jump down from something.
I have tried putting him on a diet, but the meowing only intensified and I value my sanity more than the weight of my cat. He does keep me company but doesn't really like it when I pick up a book. For some odd reason, the flipping of pages annoy him. Or maybe it is the lack of attention that he gets when I am reading.
I guess that I never really thought about how much cats are attention whores but turn into teases whenever you put down your book to pet them. It is so annoying that without fail, when I put my book down to pet Panthro, he runs just outside hands reach and meows at me. It is like cat torture for being taller than him or for having opposable thumbs.