Nothing Ever Happens Around Here
“Mom,
I don’t want to go outside,” said Louie Knuckleberry
as his mother pushed him out the back door and into the
yard.
“It’s a gorgeous day. There’s no sense wasting it,” she said.
“It’s just sunshine,” said Louie. “I don’t want any sunshine. There’s nothing to do out here.”
He plopped down on the steps. He was thinking about life and what it all meant when an ant marched over, pushed Louie’s right elbow out of the way, seized the bone in front of Brutus, the family dog, and marched back to its anthill.
Louie sighed. “It’s hot out here, Mom. Can’t I come in?”
It was all too much for Brutus. The canned dog food was one thing, and the un-air-conditioned doghouse was another, but losing his best bone to a pushy ant was definitely over the limit. So he removed his official watchdog collar and dropped it at Louie’s feet.
With his suitcase between his teeth and his Panama hat on his head, Brutus flapped his arms hard enough to clear the top of Louie’s head and the trees, then turned lazily south toward Florida, where his parents had retired.
“Mom, nothing every happens around here. I am sooo bored!”
Brutus had flown right over where the squirrels were playing baseball with the alley cats. The squirrels were definitely talented, but they kept delaying the game by eating the walnuts they were using for baseballs.
“Mom, pleeeease!”
“All right, all right,” said Louie’s mother. “You can come back inside. Just be quiet. I’m working on my novel.”
“Bless you, dear old Mom.”
Louie was enjoying the second bite of his peanut-butter sandwich when his mom dropped her pencil. “There are squirrels and cats playing baseball out there!”
“It’s no big deal,” said Louie. “The cats always win. And by the way, we need a new dog.”
