Chet The Dog

Posts Tagged ‘bacon’

Proust’s Madeleine Equivalent?

I awoke to the smell of bacon.

The first sentence of

 

Coming April 26.

Slice of Life

Here, from reader Iris Johnson, is a poem on a Chetish topic.

SLICE OF LIFE

Seems like everywhere you look,
On TV or in a book,
It’s the fave of every cook–
Bacon’s taking over.

In the forest, at the beach,
Mountaintops where eagles screech,
There’s no place it doesn’t reach–
Bacon’s taking over.

In a sandwich, on a plate,
Chocolate-covered too of late;
Clearly it’s the will of fate–
Bacon’s taking over.

Jews and Muslims think they’re strong,
But in time they’ll come along;
Can’t resist that siren song–
Bacon’s taking over.

Hell with all that fat-free stuff!
Don’t you think we’ve had enough?
Way more fun than booze or snuff–
Bacon’s taking over.

Why cling on to foolish pride?
May as well enjoy the ride.
You can run but you can’t hide–
Bacon’s taking over.

Kitchens and Us

I’d seen worse. The kitchen, which was where we ended up, was kind of nice. It had one of those old stoves you sometimes see that stand on little feet, with space underneath, and in that space, would you believe it? Practically a whole strip of bacon, presently – but not for long, amigo – getting gnawed on by a nervous-eyed mouse. The little guy split in a hurry – and tried to abscond with the goods, abscond with the goods being cop talk for making off with the bacon. In the end, he barely absconded with himself. As for the bacon? Delish, and not really that old at all. Still plenty of crunch left, which is how we like our bacon, me and Bernie. This case, whatever it was about exactly, couldn’t have been going more smoothly.

– from The Sound and the Furry.

Welcome roadtripper.

Chetspeak Sunday

. . . and now Iggy doesn’t get out much. I went over to our side window. And there he was at his side window!

Iggy stared at me. I stared at Iggy. After a bit of that, he turned and trotted away, wagging that stubby little tail of his. A few moments later, he returned. Now he had something in his mouth. It looked like … oh, no, was that possible? Iggy had a whole package of bacon? And I didn’t?

Iggy stared at me. I stared at Iggy. I recognized that wrapping, mostly see-through, with a gold band at the top: we had the same kind – excellent bacon, farm-fresh and organic, according to Bernie – in the fridge. I wanted bacon real bad, and not just any bacon, but Iggy’s bacon. He just stood there, the package in his mouth. Mr. Parsons appeared in the background, approaching Iggy slowly, on account of his walker. Iggy didn’t seem to be aware of Mr. Parsons at all: he was too busy making sure I got a nice long look at that bacon. And now Mr. Parsons was right behind him. Grab that bacon, Mr. Parsons, quick! Mr. Parsons reached down to grab the bacon, but not quick. Iggy saw his hand at the last moment and booked; also not quick, but quick enough. Mr. Parsons stumped after him, both of them vanishing from my sight.

I went into the kitchen and stood in front of the fridge. We’d worked on doors, me Bernie, and there were now some I could open, but fridge doors weren’t among them. So I just stood there. I could hear Bernie singing in the shower, some of his old favorites: “Born To Lose,” “An Empty Bottle, A Broken Heart, And You’re Still On My Mind,” “Death Don’t Have No Mercy In This Land.” He was in a good mood.

– from The Dog Who Knew Too Much.