IRELAND FIRST: Trump, International Boundary Consultant

13 September 2026

2013

R. Linda:

Yesterday, I watched the news with Mam. She suddenly hushed me and turned the sound up.

"Wot?" I asked her.

"IRELAND, he's talking about IRELAND, uniting the country!"

Okay then, I thought. Obviously she caught something I didn't. I wasn't paying attention because when Trump came on screen, I thought he was talking about his golf course. I knew he was in Dublin but wasn't interested, because I am no golfer meself.

She ran the clip back. 

"Listen ta dis!" She instructed me.

Trump was being Trump. Out of the blue- oh, make that out of the green- he decided he could fix a problem the people of Ireland wrestled with for centuries. Unification of the entire island. He thinks it can be sorted out because, in his words, unification would be "very cool" and "how can it be bad?"

She paused the telly and looked at me, repeating, "How can it be bad?"

I shrugged and signalled her to unpause so we could hear the rest of the plan.

He was saying in so many words that Ireland should be one whole country, not the North a part of the U.K. 

"Would someone speak up!" Mam shouted at the telly. "Tell that man about the Good Friday Agreement. Tell him what Unionists are, what a Nationalist is, explain the many referendums, consents, Stormont and a hundred years of Irish history!" 

She looked at me.

"Huh? You aren't suggesting? Oh, Mam, I be not there; I be here, and I wouldn't get into the same room with the misinformed man, now would I? How would I explain to a man who thinks he is remarkably good at fixing boundaries, for heaven's sake- he'd rename Ireland- I'd be sure, say something like…like…Lesser America?"

"More the reason." She huffed.

All day she was on this, like I could do something about it. I kept telling her that, by the looks on the Irish faces surrounding Trump, they weren't hot on the idea. So was it any wonder that when I went up to bed last night I dreamt about being in a room with Trump, trying to explain the Good Friday Agreement? 

That night, in me dream, he listened to me for like ten nanoseconds and said, "Right. So what you're saying is, nobody thought of just joining the two pieces? Okay, here's the problem." Trump produced a thick-tipped Sharpie and drew a thick black line through Northern Ireland. "This line. Terrible line. Maybe the worst line anybody ever drew."

Micheál Martin said from behind me, "That's the border."

"Exactly, we get rid ot it."

"You can't just erase a border."

Trump rubbed it out with his sleeve.

"Just did."

I was speechless; did he not understand a word? Obviously not. He took the Sharpie and went over to a map of Ireland, circled the whole of it, and wrote IRELAND across it.

"There. Unified. It's a beautiful thing. Ireland, unified."

I sighed. "Sir, Northern Ireland is part of the United Kingdom. Your friend, King Charles…he wouldn't like that, I don't think."

He looked back at the map. "Which part?" he asked.

"The top bit, right there where it says Ulster." I pointed.

He scoffed, "THAT tiny bit?" 

"Yes."

"And Britain wants it?"

"They do."

"Why? There's not much there."

I knew no explanation for the last several centuries would sink in as to why Britain wanted to hold onto Northern Ireland.

"Well," he said, "Give Britain compensation." He had the Sharpie out and was trading territory like properties in Monopoly.

"Okay, so Britain gives Northern Ireland. Ireland gives Britain something in return. What have you got?" He turned to me.

"Sir, countries don't generally work that way."

"They absolutely do. I've done deals."

I turned around to spy Micheál Martin still sitting in the room, desperately trying to prevent himself from becoming the owner of Wales. Somehow he knew what was coming.

Trump grunted, picked up his Sharpie, and circled Scotland. He turned and said smugly to me, "These guys want out too." 

"Not all, some." Martin offered.

"And Wales?"

"Well—" Martin squirmed.

"Jesus. What exactly is England doing over there?" Trump asked, but didn't really want to know.

Martin and I watched as Trump methodically dismantled the United Kingdom with his Sharpie. We both sat there blinking uncontrollably at each slash of the Sharpie. 

"Northern Ireland goes to Ireland." He turned around with a thought, "When Scotland hears about this, they will want out too and Wales? Agh, they'll want a piece of it too."

Martin sighed and whispered to me, "I can just imagine King Charles demanding to know WHO authorised any of that…that raiméis!"

Trump looked at Martin. "You want Wales?"

"Why the hell would I want Wales?"

"Beautiful country, tremendous sheep.

"We have a beautiful country and sheep here." 

"Even better. We'll call it New Wales."

"There is already a New Wales," Martin corrected, "it's on the east coast of Australia."

"New Ireland, then," his marker printed over the map of Wales.

This kept escalating because he'd found the many islands that surround the U.K. Martin yelled at him, "Stop giving away countries! You can't just do that."

I bolted upright in bed, sweating. What was I dreaming? 

I woke Tonya, not meaning to, by me squirming.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" 

"I just dreamed Trump unified Ireland with a Sharpie pen."

She stared at me; I could see her eyes glowing in the darkness, like a cat.

"And?" She meowed.

"He gave Ireland Wales."

She rolled over. "Go back to sleep, Gabe."

"I don't want to. I think Scotland's next."

After a while, I drifted back to sleep, but not where I wanted to go.

I found meself suddenly in the same room without Trump, just Martin. The telly was on, the reports were coming in that the NI Unionists who had cultivated relations with Trump were denouncing his Unified Ireland. In a twist, the Nationalists who couldn't stand Trump's policies have discovered, very briefly, that maybe he isn't such an awful fellow after all. SDLP politician Colum Eastwood was jokingly posting, "I always liked him," while Claire Hanna cracked that Trump was "not as orange as he looks!"

Martin pointed out the window, and there was a horde of jubilant people wearing T-shirts that said: TRUMP: MAKE ULSTER GREAT AGAIN.

"Oh, dear." Martin groaned.

The telly interrupted our window-watching. We turned around from the shouting of, "I've waited me whole life for a united Ireland!" and "Jayus, Mary an' Joseph, put the border back?"

I looked down at the headlines in the newspaper and pointed:  TRUMP: 32 COUNTIES, ONE GREAT DEAL.

Then I looked at Martin and said, "Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh dear." How in hell did I get involved in this? I don't even know all the counties in New Hampshire!

"You know what this will start, don't you?" He said to me, "He'll return to Washington very pleased with himself, and he'll announce he has SOLVED Ireland's unification problem, AND that he's available to settle other difficult territorial disputes."

I nodded. Yes, I could see that. "Someone needs to hide all the globes."

"Too late, he's already seen Canada. He said, just before this idea popped into his head, and we were discussing tariffs, that he's made America Great again. When suddenly he looked at the globe on the table, pointing out the U.S., he turned to me and said, 'Wait a minute. Why is that whole thing up there a different country?'"

I commiserated with Martin by mumbling, "Here we have an outsider wandering into one of history's most complicated political questions on earth and treating it like he's rearranging tables at a wedding." 

"And 'How can it be bad?'" Martin threw up his hands in frustration. "800 years of Anglo-Irish history and he concludes the problem is that nobody before him had a Sharpie that could make good deals on a map."

We stopped talking; there was a knock on the door, and Trump popped his head around. "I'm baccck!  I realised you guys have another problem."

"What might that be?" We both asked in horrified unison.

"Prince Harry." He looked at the map. "Where's Harry?"

"California, or he was. England now, I believe." I said, looking to Martin, who was nodding in agreement.

Trump stared at me for a minute. "Why in California?"

Martin and I both shrugged.

Suddenly, we were all aware that Harry and Meghan were sitting at the table where the globe was. Nobody remembers inviting them! 

Meghan had a folder labelled OUR TRUTH. Harry looked confused. And I am thinking, well, thank the powers that be, finally somebody at this table who knows less about why he's here than I do.

Trump declares Harry is the obvious solution to the monarchy problem.

"You're a prince."

"Well…yes."

"Great. You can have Scotland."

"I don't think Scotland wants me."

"Everybody wants Scotland. Beautiful golf courses."

Meghan leaned over and whispered something to Harry.

Harry said, "Meghan thinks we should have Canada." 

She pulled on his sleeve; he leaned in towards her as she whispered again.

"And Australia. You know, two for her, one for me."

The bloody greed of these two, especially the missus!

Trump shook his shaggy head. "No can do. Canada belongs to America! Now Greenland, there's a country for you, well, not you. Greenland. American, so don't even think it."

I sat there wondering why everybody was getting countries, when that thought was broken to smithereens by Trump saying, "Since Harry left Britain, he clearly understands secession. So, Harry should become the official adviser on breaking up the United Kingdom."

I whispered to Martin that Harry AND Meghan were doing a bang-up job of that on their own.

But Harry tried to explain that leaving the Royal Family wasn't quite the same as Irish reunification. But Trump waved him off.

"You left England. Ireland wants to leave England. Same thing."

"Actually, Northern Ireland—" 

"Harry, I KNOW borders. I'm the Border King."

Just when I thought this couldn't get any more bizarre, King Charles walks in carrying a cup of tea.

"What precisely is going on?" He regally inquired.

Trump proudly pointed at the map. "I fixed your country."

Charles put his teacup down and, with his hands behind his back, perused the map…for a very long time, seemingly discovering his losses one at a time. He coughed into his hand and half-turned toward Trump. "Northern Ireland is gone." He paused and turned again. "Scotland appears to be gone." A longer pause this time. "And Wales?"

"Martin's got that."

"I don't want it."

"Harry gets Scotland and Meg here, maybe Iceland, and they share Australia on weekends in case you missed that," Trump said, much like a Realtor explaining what properties sold. 

Charles stared at the map. I could feel he was silently seething.

"Where is England, landed?"

Trump pointed. "That's yours."

"How very generous of you." Charles turned toward him, looking less than happy.

Another voice said, "Gabriel Alloysius O'Sullivan, wake the hell up!" And I realise that's me own voice.

I heard meself say out loud, "But wot do I get? You didn't give ME a country yet! Even an island, I'll take the Shetland Islands or the Isle of Man maybe…"

"What is going on?" Tonya said, disturbed that I woke her again.

"I dreamt Trump united Ireland, untied Britain, Harry got Scotland, I think, Meghan got Iceland, and Martin got Wales, that he didn't want, and I got nothing!"

Silence.

"Why'd you get nothing? What did you do?"

"That's what I kept fecking asking meself!"

She found me funny!

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved  

The Wrong SUV

09 September 2026

2012

R. Linda:

Some days things go along gloriously for us, and on other days, they don't. Take, for example, me former intern, the brilliant and, might I add, usually alert Ms Jaio. I will give her this, though: since the Sam fiasco, she hasn't been on her game. No, she's been moody, a bit depressed, closed off and, well, just not her usually bubbly self. If I try to talk to her about what I know is the problem, she cuts me off and, well, I know not to bother her; just let her stew in her own juices until she's ready to serve up Sam on a plate.

Anyway, I had some important papers that were being left for me downtown. I was swamped with work, so I asked Ms Jaio to pick them up for me. She was willing and left, no questions asked. 

Ms Jaio got downtown to pick up my office-related material and, being in that grand funk she's in, got into the wrong SUV. It's several blocks away when she notices the dashboard isn't the one she's familiar with. In a panic, she calls me- yes, me- who's very busy- to manage a potential grand theft auto situation over the phone. I thought she was joking, but I should have known better, not in the mood she was in. I stupidly told her to not stop, do not pass go, drive back to the exact grid coordinates she stole the SUV from, park it and walk away- easy-peasy. 

"I can't do that." She said, annoyed. 

"Wait! How did you manage to get the SUV to run?" I was curious.

"I always leave the keys inside. I know, stupid."

I sighed and thought she wasn't the only one; someone else did the same thing, and here we are. 

It got worse: she stopped for a light and saw a silent passenger staring at her in the rearview mirror, which almost made her jump out of her skin. She wanted to pull over, but what to do? Why is there a large grey dog in the backseat? Her first instinct was to let him out, but then she realised she couldn't do that. What if he was some prize dog? And secondly, she was not only guilty of stealing a car, but of dog-napping someone's pet.

She sends me this

Meanwhile, I am telling her that if she gets pulled over, she doesn't know me, she doesn't work with me, and that package was never authorised. She didn't find me humorous. 

"Okay, so you touched the steering column, you breathed on the glass, you need to wipe that down and oh, yeah, the dashboard as well," I said, not really helping. 

"You make me feel like America's Most Wanted." She said. "Stop with the stupid and obvious advice and help me."

"I'm thinking, I'm thinking," I said, thinking that my advice to turn around and drive back was the best advice, but apparently not to Ms Jaio for whatever reason. I was about to find out that reason.

"Gabriel, there are a lot of patrol cars around me. They must know." She whined.

I sat there thinking: that was fast if someone just discovered their SUV missing and called it in. No, not enough time for the constabulary to be out looking. 

"Gabriel, the police are clearing intersections as I'm driving down the street, and I'm the only vehicle they are letting through." This was said at the beginning of panic.

"What's the dog doing?" I asked her, trying to take her mind off the police.

"It has its head out the window and is enjoying the ride. What do you think it's doing?" Suddenly she shouted, "Oh my god, Gabriel, there is a line of black cars a block ahead of me, with police on motorcycles, lights flashing! And another a block in back of me! What does THAT mean?"

Hmm, I thought, what does that mean? I had a brain flash and turned on the local telly because something was playing in me mind that I knew I knew, but couldn't remember. And there it was, the high-profile political motorcade going to the polls to vote. And there in the very middle of the screen, separated by maybe five car-lengths either way, was Ms Jaio, unknowingly and unwittingly a part of a televised motorcade!

"Ms Jaio, do you have those papers you were picking up for me? The editor is making horrific barking noises at me to get it done." I said.

"Gabriel," Ms Jaio whispered, "I need you to listen to me very carefully. I'm currently in a moving vehicle, and I am not a car thief, but legally, I might be a car thief with a dog that doesn't belong to me. Do YOU really think I care if an editor is yelling at you?"

"Okay, let me give you the news: YOU, Ms Jaio, are in the middle of a political motorcade. The patrol cars aren't hunting you; they are escorting you because they think you belong there."

"How do you know this?" She asked, interested.

"Because I have the TV on and I am watching YOU with a police escort in a stolen car."

"What?"

Dead silence for 3 seconds — "Turn around and put it back right now."

"Are you crazy?! I can't! I'm four blocks away, and every cop in the area is outside! I am not exaggerating, and if you are watching this, you know that! Blue and red lights are flashing at every intersection. They know, Gabriel. They tracked the GPS. They're setting up a perimeter!"

"Ms Jaio, calm down. Why would the entire precinct mobilise over a mid-size SUV in broad daylight? I'm telling you they think you are part of that political entourage going to the polls."

Jaio, her voice cracking, said, "Why? Because of the hostage! There is a big dog in the backseat! Aren't you listening?! It is staring at me in the rearview mirror with pure, unadulterated judgment, Gabriel. It looks like it has the aura of a federal judge. If I get pulled over for grand theft auto AND dog-napping, I am going to federal prison."

"Okay, legal disclaimer: YOU do not work for this company. You are a rogue agent. If the police call me, I've never heard the name Ms Jaio in me life."

"Not funny, Gabriel! This isn't the time for jokes!"

"Fine! Wipe down everything. Do you have a napkin? Do not leave fingerprints! Now, perform a tactical U-turn, drive back to the parking garage, park it exactly where you found it and walk away like you haven't a thought in your head."

"Stop with the jokes, can you? A police cruiser just pulled out directly behind me! (A loud, sharp CRUNCH echoed through the phone)

"Ms Jaio, what was that? Did you hit the cruiser?"

"No! The dog just found a bag of artisanal potato chips in the back seat and started eating them right next to my ear! Gabriel, what do I do?!"

Ms Jaio kept her eyes locked on the rearview mirror. The police cruiser behind her hadn't turned on its sirens yet, but it was tailing her closer than a shadow. In the backseat, the dog let out a heavy, disappointed sigh, its jowls vibrating as it finished off the last of the artisanal potato chips.

"Gabriel, he's still behind me. The cop. And the dog just licked the back of my neck. I think it's a threat."

"Just act natural. Turn right at the next light. If he follows you, we look up bail bondsmen."

Jaio told me, in no uncertain terms, that she couldn't signal and turn.

The entire four-lane avenue ahead of her was completely blocked off. There weren't just two or three police cars; there were dozens. Officers in high-visibility vests directed traffic; police horses stretched in a line along the curb.

"Gabriel, I don't think they are looking for me; I think the Mayor is going to the polls to vote."

"Oh, thank god," I breathed, "Okay, so pull over, get out of the car, and—"

Suddenly, the officer tailing her tapped his horn. He rolled down his window and gestured frantically for Ms Jaio to keep moving forward, waving her past the barricades and into the official car lineup.

Before she could protest, a parking enforcement officer ran up to her passenger window and knocked. She slowly rolled it down, her heart hammering against her ribs.

"Hey there!" the officer boomed cheerfully, looking past Ms Jaio into the backseat. "You're just in time! Chief said you guys were running late. Go ahead and slot right in behind the Mayor's car. Everyone's waiting to see the guest of honour!"

Ms  Jaio blinked several times. "The…guest of honour?"

The dog in the backseat let out a sharp, authoritative BARK! and immediately shoved its head out the rear window, panting happily and wagging its tail. The crowd on the sidewalk instantly erupted into cheers, and a child pointed, shouting, "Look! It's Barnaby, the K9 hero!"

Over the phone, I could hear the crowd. 

"Ms Jaio? Why does it sound like you just won a stadium event?"

"Gabriel," Ms Jaio said, staring ahead at the Mayor's car as her stolen SUV slowly pulled up to a stop. "I don't think I can return the car right now. I'm currently chauffeuring the town mascot."

Barnaby (I took this off the TV)

Barnaby was leaning out the back window, barking at the crowd. The handler was opening the back door as Ms Jaio came to a stop. Barnaby was out and being led towards the crowd of admirers.

"Ms Jaio, talk to me. Are you in custody? Do I need to contact legal?"

"Worse." Ms Jaio whispered. "I am currently passing the Mayor, coming out from voting. They are turning around. Gabriel, they are looking right at me."

Twenty feet ahead, the Mayor, flashing a blinding smile at constituents, turned around to see the beloved police dog. The smile froze in place. The Mayor looked at Barnaby, then looked at the driver's seat, then looked back at Barnaby.

The Mayor tapped a high-ranking police officer on the shoulder and pointed at Ms Jaio. The officer strode over to Ms Jaio's window and signalled for her to roll it down. Looking utterly bewildered but keeping a public-relations smile plastered on his face for the crowd and cameras, "Excuse me! Who are you? And why were you driving Barnaby?"

Ms Jaio's brain short-circuited. She looked at the officer. She looked at the crowd and the Mayor. She looked at the news camera currently filming LIVE.

"I'm…the valet!"

The officer and the Mayor stared at her, blinking, then the Mayor squinted at Ms Jaio's office-casual outfit. "In a beige cardigan?"

"It's tactical beige, yes, Ma'am!" Ms Jaio said desperately.

The police handler came up looking perplexed; he had heard the conversation, but said nothing. He studied Ms Jaio, like he was trying to place her. He did tell her to park up near the alley. Meanwhile, I watched it play out in real time. I knew where she was. 

"Ms Jaio," I whispered into me phone, "now's your chance, to escape. There's an alleyway coming up on your right, past the doughnut stand! Take it! At the next street, make a right, and it will take you right back to the parking garage."

I heard nothing from Ms Jaio for an hour after. I was almost frantic with worry- well, not frantic, but I was wondering what happened to her. The camera had panned to the dog and the crowd, and that was that. I turned off the TV and wondered. 

"I'm back!" I heard her voice behind me, making me jump. She slung her purse down on me desk and sat down. "I found the same parking space. I wiped the SUV down, made sure I had all my stuff, and put it back exactly where I found it."

 She paused. 

"My car was three spaces down."

I stared at her.

"Three?"

"Don't."

In the back of me mind, I was thinking of TV cameras, garage cameras that take your picture as you enter and exit, so not quite all traces. I didn't have the heart to tell her that. But then what if the authorities turned up and arrested her for grand theft and dog-napping? 

"Let's go tell Cruella what happened, to be sure you are legally safe. After all, it was an accident."

She looked at me, and I could see the horror of realisation coming over her.

"Yes. Yes, I should do that. Will you come with me?" 

I dropped back to me usual voice and said, "Did you get the papers I sent you for?"

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved  

"Itz Worth Thousands"

06 September 2026

2011

R. Linda:

I thought that with everyone gone, life might and I say might, because nothing is ever written in stone when it comes to me--return to some kind of normalcy. I hoped that anyway. After the Doc Holiday incident, things were going smoothly. Annie Jenkins, who owns the former escapee, came over with a homemade carrot cake for moi. I shared it with all, and I was very proud of me horse-wrangling capabilities; how I managed that gigantic horse-saving was the talk all over our little horsey town, giving me a bit of celebrity. 

That was until a certain red mustang pulled down me driveway.

Say so long to a calm, cool, and collected lifestyle, and hello to chaos, weirdness, and frustration personified. Yes, R. Linda, the Weasil was BACK!

My first reaction was to turn off the lights, lock the door and hide. But too late for that, Tonya was looking out the window, waving at him as he pulled up.

"Oh, Gabe! Weasil's here." 

Like I didn't know that. I sighed. There was nothing to do for it but open the door and let the young whippersnapper in to usurp me world and create as much craziness as he possibly can get away with. 

I opened the door with a flourish, bowed to me waist and gestured the young scamp inside.

"Your Majesty, back so soon? What brings you to me neck of the woods?"

He grabbed me by me shirt and shook me as he said, "Gabby, I gots somethin' valuable fer like an American dollar!"

"You did?" I feigned surprise and enthusiasm, but he didn't seem to notice. He thought I was enjoying his announcement.

"Aye, I wentz me way downie to Beanie Town an' I was passin' an antiquie store when I saw it!"

I bit: "Saw what?"

"It'z out in me speed wagon."

OK, speed wagon, that's what he calls the Mustang. Last I heard, he had named it Alma. But hey, speed wagon is what it be. He speeds like a demon.

"Well, go get it." I encouraged, still feigning enthusiasm that was not there.

I stood there looking at Tonya, who had cowardly retreated to the kitchen. She was standing with a cuppa tea and smiling at me, like a Cheshire cat. 

"Not nice, Ton. You should be standing here with bated breath waiting for the great find to appear in the doorway."

"Nah, that's ok. You can act sufficiently overwhelmed for both of us."

Well, let me tell you, I was bloody overwhelmed for real. I had no clue what Weasil had in his arms. He had a huge grin on his weasely face like he had scored the winning goal for Man United. 

"Sos, wot ya think?" He said, extending it so I could get a look all around it.

I put on me analytic face and rubbed me chin, taking it in. Out of the corner of me eye, I saw Tonya, brow furrowed in perplexity, looking from the kitchen. I raised me eyebrows at her, like, what the hell is that thing? She read me perfectly and shrugged. 

"Um, very nice. VERY nice." I said as if I was truly impressed.

"Yeah, I made out I did." Said he. "It be worth thousands!" 

"O K. What the bloody hell is that?" I asked.

Weasil hesitated for the tiniest beat.

"Dunno."

"SO, let me get this straight: YOU saw something strange, decided it was valuable, and paid practically nothing for it? And here you and IT are."

"Yuppers we iz."

R. Linda, I know you are dying to see this thing, just like Tonya was. I showed him into the kitchen, and he set it on the counter, and with silence reigning, the three of us stared at it.

Weasil's acquisition and me experiencing perplexity

"Any ideas there, Tonya?" I asked her.

"No, but I think we need something stronger than tea. I'll be right back." And off she went for the Jameson bottle and glasses.

"Take a wild guess, Weaz, what do you think this is?"

"I've absolutely no idea, BUT I knowz itz worth sumthin'."

"Looks like junk to me," Tonya said, putting the "refreshments" on the countertop. 

That remark upset the Weasil greatly. 

Once we had our shot glasses in hand, we stood there sipping and offering explanations.

"I especially like the glass globe," Tonya said, "it is some kind of ridiculous contraption."

"Oh, it be that," I agreed.

"And the magnifying glass, um, well, I'm sure there is a perfectly plausible explanation for whatever it is."

"It looks old," I offered. "Its purpose is not immediately apparent." I surmised more to meself, which brought "You think, Sherlocke?" From the wife. 

"Itz worth thousands," Weasil mumbled again.

"Here, let me take a picture of the 'thing,' and I'll put it in Finder and see if anything comes up." Tonya took a snap and punched in "WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?"

I regretted that I even opened the door to this bullshit. 

"It's searching," she said. "And still searching," she said, smiling, tolerating us, and the 'thing'.

"I juz knowz it be worth thousands," Weasil mumbled again, tracing his finger along the thermometer or whatever the tube thing was. 

"Okay, let's really look at this thing," I said. "It has a globe; it has a thermometer, or is that a pressure gauge?  It has a weight measurer, it has a counterweight, it has a magnifying glass and two things I haven't a clue about."

"Have fun figuring out what the blasted thing supposedly measures," Tonya said. "Oh, here it is," she said, flashing the photo that came up.

"Ooh, ooh, dats it!" Weasil shouted, all excited.

Found in an antique shop

Only it wasn't an antique.

"So how much iz it worth?" Weasil asked, surprised she found it.

"Ohhh, how much did you say? Thousands?" She asked, and he nodded his head in a lively affirmative, anticipation of joy written all over his face.

She sucked in her breath and shook her head.

"I hate to be the bearer of not-so-good news, so please don't kill the messenger, BUT…YOU'VE STEAMPUNKED YOURSELF!"

"Steampunked? You mean itz a steampunk creation? OF WOT?" This said with immense irritation.

"It doesn't say. But it does say this: Steampunk creations can be made from or depict completely "useless" articles, and in fact, this is a major part of the subculture's charm."

I tried hard to keep meself together. This was rich, almost too rich. Crap like this happens to me, not Weasil, so you know I was enjoying the heck out of all this. 

Against every law of nature — I turn out to be right.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved  

I Spoke Too Soon

03 September 2026

2010

R. Linda:

I should never have said a word about nothing happening. No, I won't do that ever again.

Apparently, the Fates were listening and said, "Oh? Gabriel O'Sullivan thinks life has become a wee bit dull, does he? Well. We can fix that."

And fix it they did!

I used to enjoy it when I got to work at home whilst school for the kiddos was in session. The house would be empty; I'd have a quiet day to do me work and then laze about in complete and utter Gabe-ness, until everyone returned to the abode.

School just started and Dragon has gone home, leaving me Mam, who be still recovering from the head trauma. So I was looking forward to one of those quiet days. And I was having one, too. Yes, I was chugging along very nicely, thank you very much. 

Until--DA DA DA DUM!

Mam's cat came flying into me office. Now, Mam's cat does not generally come flying into me office as though the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse have arrived and one of them he owes money to, or catnip. But there he was, running from window to window, meowing and carrying on. 

This was not normal. 

Usually, when the turkey flock comes meandering past the windows, he sits there chattering at them, no doubt imagining himself a mighty hunter instead of a pampered house cat who wouldn't know what to do with a turkey if one knocked on the door and introduced itself. 

But this?

Window. 

Meow.

Other window.

MEOW.

Back to the first window.

I was sitting at me desk watching this performance when I happened to look outside. There was a horse in me side yard!

A HORSE!

Not where a horse ought to be. Not behind a fence. Not attached to a person. Just a great enormous horse, loose as you please, running through me yard toward the pond.

For one brief moment, me brain simply stopped.

Horse.

Yard.

Horse in yard.

Why be there a horse in me yard?

Then I realised I knew the horse. He belonged to neighbours down the road. And yes, as you know, this isn't the first time we've had an equine escapee in these parts. Different horse this time. Much bigger horse.

Because apparently if the Fates are going to repeat themselves and mess with me, they like to raise the stakes. 

Well, what does one do when several hundred kilograms of somebody else's livestock goes galloping through one's property?

I hadn't the faintest idea. So naturally, I sprang into action. 

In a muck sweat, I bolted out me front door and ran toward the higher part of my front yard, completely oblivious to whether I'd actually shut the door behind me.      

"Doc!"

"Doc Holiday!"

He turned and looked at me. That in itself was encouraging. 

"Doc! Come on, Dockey!" 

And the enormous creature started trotting toward me. I confess, I had not expected this. There I stood with no halter, no lead rope, no bucket of grain, no horse-wrangling experience and, at this point, very little functioning brain. But Doc came right up to me. So I started walking. And Doc started walking with me, like a dog, a very large dog. A dog weighing somewhere in the vicinity of- Oh, dear God.

"Come on then, Doc. Good lad. That's it. We're just going home. You and me. Nothing unusual happening here." 

Meanwhile, inside me head:

YOU, GABRIEL O'SULLIVAN, ARE NOT A HORSE WRANGLER.

I know.

WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO DO IF HE RUNS OFF?

I don't know.

HE COULD DISAPPEAR INTO THE WOODS FOR DAYS!

Please shut up.

THERE ARE BEARS IN THOSE WOODS!

I KNOW THERE ARE BEARS IN THE WOODS!

CALL THE LOCAL CONSTABLE!

At that particular moment, I don't believe I could have remembered how to operate me phone. 

So down the road we went. Me and Doc Holiday. One giant quarter horse from out west, a proper cattle horse standing sixteen hands high…and one Gabriel O'Sullivan, armed with absolutely nothing but conversation. I kept talking to him as though we'd been friends for years. 

"That's a good lad, Doc. Come along. Lovely day for a walk, isn't it? Though generally one waits for one's human before leaving the property, but who am I to criticise?"

And he followed.

I kept praying no car would come roaring down the road and frighten him. None did. We reached his barn. I got him into one of the stalls. 

Success!

I fetched some grass and tossed it in for him. 

I had done it!

Captured

I, Gabriel O'Sullivan, had successfully retrieved a loose sixteen-hand horse without rope, halter, assistance or, arguably, common sense. I stood there for perhaps three glorious seconds, feeling rather pleased with meself. 

Then the thought struck me.

"MAM'S CAT!"

The front door. Had I shut the front door? Oh. Oh, no. 

I RAN.

Back down the road I went in a panic-filled quick jog, which is a form of locomotion I do not recommend unless one enjoys feeling one's heart attempt to leave the body through the throat. All I could think was:

If that cat got out, I'll never catch him.

And worse:

Mam will be broken-hearted.

I reached the house. The door was open. Of course it was. And there sat Mam's cat. Right there, just inside, watching me. He had the expression of a creature who had witnessed the entire affair and found me performance deeply disappointing, but there was something else, yes, a look like he knew something I didn't. 

"Thank you," I told him; yes, I thanked the cat like a human. Don't judge me; it had been a difficult morning. I looked at him again; yes, there was something…something he KNEW that I did not. Hum.

I closed the door and noticed something. 

SILENCE.

Now, anyone who owns a dog knows that opening a house door generally produces a dog. There should have been paws. There should have been sniffing. There should have been the customary inspection to determine where I had been and why I had committed the grievous offence of going there without him. 

Nothing.

"Hello?"

Nothing.

I called him.

Nothing.

Oh, for the love of—

THE DOG.

I knew immediately. He was outside. 

So back out I went—this time shutting the bloody door behind me—and started calling, and calling, and calling!

At this point, the horse was safely incarcerated, the cat had miraculously chosen not to make a bid for freedom, and now me dog was somewhere in the woods. The woods. The very woods containing all the things me imagination was already helpfully cataloguing for me. 

I called again.

And finally, out of the trees came Lassie.

Just came trotting out. Straight to me. As though nothing whatsoever had happened. 

"Oh, hello. Were you looking for me?"

Good dog!

He came inside with me as casually as if this were an entirely ordinary part of our daily routine. 

I, meanwhile, was approximately ninety years old. 

Now came the distribution of bribes. 

I gave the dog a piece of baby carrot. He likes carrots and, more importantly, because he had come when called and hadn't decided to embark on a solo expedition across New England. 

I gave Mam's cat treats and thanked him again for not ruining me life.

Then I got some carrots together for Doc and jotted a note to his owner explaining what had happened. But one thought was still bothering me. Had I actually fastened Doc's stall gate? I thought I had. But I had also thought I'd closed me front door. So, clearly Gabriel O'Sullivan's recollection of recent events could not currently be admitted as reliable evidence.

Back to the barn.

This time I took the trail behind me house it was faster. On the way, I passed the chickens, and they started squawking at me. Of course they did. Apparently word had spread that Gabriel was handing out refreshments.

"Fine!" 

I broke up a few carrots and threw them to the cluckers.

At this point I had become some sort of traumatised woodland Disney Princess, wandering about the property feeding every creature I encountered. 

Horse: carrot.

Dog: carrot.

Cat: treats.

Chickens: carrots.

Gabe: heart palpitations.

I continued down the trail and reached the barn.

The gate was still fastened. Thank every god anyone has ever believed in. 

Doc was standing there perfectly content. When he saw me, the big fellow stretched his neck over and gave me a nuzzle. And that was when I finally stopped. I stayed with him for a while, fed him carrots, and talked softly.

"Now where exactly did you think you were going, hmm?"

Carrot.

"Had plans, did you?"

Carrot.

"Thought you'd come spend some quality time with moi?"

Carrot.

I know it sounds stupid. But Doc is the gentlest of giants. I know him by sight, but I still can't quite believe that when I called him, he came trotting over and simply followed me home.

A sixteen-hand quarter horse from out west. A real cattle horse.

Doc Holiday. Doc for short.

And somehow, in all the madness, Doc had been the easy part. I stayed there because I needed to calm down. Me heart had been racing from the moment I saw him loose. Then there was getting him down the road safely. Then remembering the open door. Then running back for the cat. Then discovering the dog was missing. Then the woods. 

By the time Lassie came strolling out of those trees as if he'd merely popped out to inspect the shrubbery, I was in a state of nervous exhaustion.

And standing there beside Doc, I could finally feel it all beginning to lessen. Because during the whole business there had been that voice in me head:

YOU, GABRIEL O'SULLIVAN, ARE NOT A HORSE WRANGLER.

Quite right. I'm not. But apparently I can impersonate one in an emergency. 

The horse was safe. The cat was safe. The dog was safe. The chickens had somehow profited from the entire affair. Mam was safe. And I had survived. 

So I stood there with Doc's enormous head beside me, feeding him carrots until me hands stopped shaking. I know what's in those woods. I know what can happen. And I know how differently that morning could have ended. But it didn't. Everyone came home. Even the horse.

Doc in the stall

So there is a lesson to be learned from all this: Never—and I mean never—announce that nothing has been happening around here. The Fates take that sort of thing as a personal challenge. And apparently they own horses. 

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved  

I Don't Like It — Something's Up

01 September 2026

2009

R. Linda:

On Monday morn, the Scottish contingent (or, as me Mam refers to them, the gruesome twosome) left for plaider pastures. Robbie's eye was much improved; you'd never know there was a poke. The two younger kiddos went back to school, and their mother went back to teach her Kindergarten class. Mam's head wound is improving and a lovely shade of sunflower yellow. She is taking it easy and resting. I am at work (as is O'Hare), and that leaves the Dragon home almost alone. Well, she might as well be; Mam is not sociable at the moment because she is "resting." I can't say anything against the Dragon lady still being here, because we are elsewhere and she's the only one cooking and cleaning. That doesn't mean I am enjoying the fact that, for the first time since I've known her, she's actually helping the household, instead of the other way around. 

However, I do not get any pleasure when I first come down for me cuppa joe, and get her reading of headlines: "Ooh, things are really changing. Listen to this: Lunatic exercises for beginners! What's the world coming to?"  

What it really said was Lymphatic exercises for beginners. I try, I really do, to keep me cakehole shut and just move on. But she makes it very hard.

As for Sam, he's gone for the week fishing with his brother in Maine. So no communication there. However, since I work with Ms Jaio, there is communication on that side of the star-crossed lovers, in that she is acting as if Sam doesn't exist. When I asked if she'd heard from the lad, her response was, "Sam who?" So I know not to go there.

To say things have returned to normal is an understatement. What in me world is the definition of normal?  It seems it will be a suspiciously quiet week. Is that even possible? I ask you. When I got home, everyone kept saying, "Wow, nothing has gone wrong lately." The more I hear this, the more convinced I am that that in itself is ominous.

I mentally went through everyone in me life's last communication with me. You know, just looking to see if there was some craziness I missed. I started with me sissy, Sheila. I had rung her up Sunday to see how the "Irish sausage troubles" were going. She had nothing. No, nothing to report on that. So much for yelling at me over the phone in front of a kitchen-full of people, as if I were somehow to blame for the renaming of sausages in Ireland. 

I had checked in with Sam before he left for his fishing trip. That was when he told me that he and Ms Jaio were no longer a "couple." I did not press the conversation in that direction, as I learned me lesson. The only thing he said, besides that he was leaving for Maine and hoping for a good time fishing with his bro, was that he'd keep an eye out for Bigfoot. 

As I say, Ms Jaio and I had no conversation on the obvious elephant in the room. We also had nothing worth writing about at the paper either. 

Weasil rang me up to tell me he left his 'phony baloney' (phone) in the spare bedroom. I went to the bedroom, and there was no phone. He told me to hang up and call his number so the phone would ring in the room and I'd find it. I did. I rang the number, and he answered. I tell ya, if he was anywhere in me vicinity, I'd have given him a right-hander in the face. 

I had checked with me Mam to make sure Dragon taking over her kitchen was all right with her. She said it was fine and no worries. She was busy finishing up book 2 of Le Mort d'Arthur. I didn't think reading was a good idea, but then Le Mort d'Arthur? Was she secretly looking for information on how to fell a dragon? I just didn't and don't understand this, but OK.

So there you have it. Nothing.

The only thing happening is to me! I have finally, after years of writing to you, realised I live in a world of dysfunctional people. Me life is never uneventful and, at times, extremely annoying because of the people in it. 

But for the last few days, nothing.

Sheila has no sausage crisis. Sam is off fishing and looking for Bigfoot. Ms Jaio has never heard of him. Mam is reading up on King Arthur and possibly how to kill a dragon. The Dragon is cleaning me house and reading about lunatics. And Weasil rang me up to help him find the phone he was ringing me on.

Nothing.

Not one blessed thing has happened.

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved  

As If Things Weren't Weird Enough

24 August 2026

2008

R. Linda:

I was done. I'd had enough. Done with the Weasil and Robbie show, enough of the medical centre. I wanted a day to meself to relax in me hammock with an Arnie Palmer and nap the world away. That was the plan anyway. 

I had got meself all set; I had me Arnie in hand, told everyone NOT to disturb me because there would be hell to pay if they did, and outside I went. No one said a word; they went back to their troughs of food Dragon was slinging their way. All kinds of Jersey greasiness, foot-long hot dogs smothered in spicy mustard in a massive bun filled to the brim with onions, peppers and potatoes and oh, don't forget the copious amounts of salt! Cast iron stomachs all of them. 

I stepped out the back door and took a deep breath of fresh, clean air, not the hot dog, pepper-filled atmosphere of the kitchen. It was SO damn refreshing, and I thought, wow, this is going to be good!

I went down the deck steps to the beautiful, just-mown lawn (thank you, Guido) and made me way up the garden path to Tonya's lush and quiet garden where me hammy was. I was enjoying the buzz of the bees in the flowers, the songbirds singing, the breeze just enough, and there was me mecca coming round the bend into view. 

I stopped, almost spilling me Arnie Palmer. There by me hammy was THIS:

NO! Not today, this is me day!

I watched as this rather large bear person took over me hammy. I wondered about the timing. Did this thing know this was ME DAY for the hammock? 

Serves ya right, and hey, don't rip the underside!

I sighed. What to do?

At first I thought it was straightening out the under netting so I could use the hammy.

No, he made it nice to give it another go.

I debated going back to the house and getting some help to scare this intruder away, but then I realised Mr. or Mrs Bear was mastering the hammock.

Yeah, we were just getting our big self comfortable.

Yup, life be good

Now I was angry. Not only had this gigantic thing taken over me hammy time, when I got everyone to swear they'd leave me alone while I was out there, but if I chased it away, the hammock was going to stink of bear. I could smell him or her from where I stood. 

It hadn't noticed me or me taking photos of it until I clucked me tongue at it. 

It looked at me like "What?"

It tumbled to the ground

Well, I lost me head; I started shouting at it: "That's me hammy you're smelling up, and it belongs to yours truly, standing right here you, you, you, MISCREANT BEAR YOU!" I know, lame, but well, just what do you shout at a bear? Oddly, it looked taken aback, so much so, it scurried to get out of me hammy.

And as I stood there self-satisfied, it took off for the woods. Good! I thought. So forgetting the bear smell, I went to me hammy, and as soon as I stood before it, the stink wafted up to me nostrils, and I was almost overcome. My lovely new hammy, the one I got for Father's Day, was soiled by a bear!

I can't win. I just can't. I give up!

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved  

Mam's Big Mis-Adventure

23 August 2026

2007

R. Linda:

I should move into the medical centre since I'm spending time there. Not for meself, but everyone else. Yesterday, it was Robbie; today, it was me Mam. 

A little background: Robbie brought his dirty laundry with him. Why? Because he is a thoughtless individual who takes a lot for granted. His excuse was that he wasn't expecting to be going anywhere, so his laundry at home was piling up, and when the Weasil told him he was coming to my abode, he had no clean clothes. SO, he just piled what he needed in his suitcase and would wash it when he got to me house. 

I knew nothing about this, but he did have the manners to ask me Mam if he could do a couple of loads. She told him, as long as it wasn't her doing his wash, it was fine by her. AND, that he needed to get it done and out of there because she had wash to do. Sounds good, but well, Robbie is not exactly a listener. He didn't hear her say, "Get in and get out." No, he left his newly washed first load in the washer overnight. It smelt really awful the next morning, and of course, with his eye, he forgot about it entirely. Me Mam didn't. She rewashed it and, when she saw him, told him to put it in the dryer and finish it. 

Well, he did, but this time he left the second load in the dryer and took the first one out without folding it, dumping it on the folding table. Mam asked him to please get his clothes out of the dryer so she could use it. So he did—and piled those on the counter by the soak sink, unfolded.

Now, me Mam has lost peripheral vision in both eyes to a degree, and everyone knows this, including Robbie, who had a conversation with her about the myopic Dragon when he came back from the eye doctors. So to leave clothes all over the laundry room was a bad idea. However, when Mam went to fold her clothes, she could only put them in her laundry basket since there was no space for them. As she was finishing up, she bent down to place something in the basket and cracked her forehead on the granite countertop. 

She said she heard the crack, and then saw the blood, so she ran to the kitchen for ice and wrapped that in a paper towel real quick, sat down and held it to her forehead. Meanwhile, the cause of this was standing at the kitchen counter filling his face and gulping down milk. 

"Somethin' 'appen?" he asked her.

She told him, and he laughed and said, "Oh well, if ye need an IbProben let me know." 

"Can't take that, have high blood pressure." Says she.

"Well, ok." And off he went. 

No, can I help you? No, do you need to go to Casualty? No, what can I do for you? No. Nothing. There she was sitting there bleeding, and he's filling his face.

So, she gets her phone and takes this photo:

Mam vs. granite. Granite won

And she sent it to me and says: "I hit me head. Hard. I heard it crack but I be okay."

It didn't look it to me! Just as I was about to go find her, she sent me this one:

And that photo was accompanied by: "I think it's looking better. I put some ice on it."

Right!

I went downstairs to find her sitting on the couch, icing the wound. It looked pretty awful, but she told me she was feeling fine. I insisted we go to the Casualty and have her checked. No sign of Robbie, by the way. You'd think he'd tell me she cracked her head open, but no, he had a sannie and was off to do whatever he and Weasil were up to.

I got her to the casualty, and no other patients were there. This was great. I had to check her in, and I put cracked skull thinking that would have her seen in no time. I was wrong. No sooner had I done that than some guy came in with his EpiPen and said he'd been bitten by a wasp. Instantly, he was ushered into the doctor's. 

I said to her, "A wasp bite is more serious than a fractured skull? Since when?" Thankfully, we didn't have to wait long. We were called into reception. I was thinking, first you have to sign in on a computer screen, then you have to answer questions in reception, then a nurse takes your vitals, and then, if you're lucky, the doctor comes in. What happens if you are bleeding out? Do you still have to go through all that?

The receptionist (or Mr Sunshine, as Mam called him) was a happy, happy sort. You could be sitting there bleeding out, and he was fine with that. "Oh, a little blood, we can clean that up, don't you worry none." THAT kind of person. I don't know what he was on, but he asked her about her insurance, then he asked her to confirm her birthdate, then he asked her if she worked, and she told him she was retired. Then he started asking her if her injury was work-related. "Well, no, she just told you she's retired," I said. Finally, he asked her date of birth AGAIN to verify she was who she said she was. She just sat there looking at him like he was a lunatic. Finally, she gave it to him again, and he was all set. If she had to spend any more time with him, I think he would have been seeing the doctor too!

We went into the patient room. Her blood pressure was taken, and while this automatic BP machine was doing its work, the nurse said she had to step out to get the wasp guy in an ambulance for transfer to a hospital. As it turned out, apparently a wasp bite was more serious than a fractured skull. Who knew? Meanwhile, the machine did its thing, and then the alarm went off; her blood pressure was 165/95.

I said to her, "You feel okay?" She nodded. Then the machine's oxygen level reading went off; she was not breathing. I looked at her; she started laughing. "Tell me, dis is a bad dream. I don't take as many breaths as other people, so dis happens." Says she. 

"Just breathe more," I said.

And she did. 

The alarm stopped. My God, we went from head wound to high blood pressure to now apparently dead. 

The nurse came in, shut off the machine and said, "You have high blood pressure."

No kidding! I was like So what are you going to do about it? Well, she did nothing. Instead, she started asking Mam what medications she is on. And that was that. 

"I be sure everyone cooms in 'ere wit an injury has high blood pressure," Mam said, after the woman left to get doctor.

If we thought it was going to get better, we were sadly mistaken. The doctor came in and was one of the most tentative human beings I've ever seen. I wondered if, first, he was afraid of Mam. He stood next to the door as if he might need to make a quick getaway. He asked Mam what happened; she told him. He went over, washed his hands, put his surgical gloves on and told her he had to press gently on her wound to see if it hurt. She just looked at him, biting her tongue. I know what she was thinking: It's a bloody hole in me forehead. What do YOU think? He did his exam, told her he didn't think she needed a scan. That she should go home, ice the bumps, and put Neosporin on the wound, etc. BUT he noticed she hadn't had a tetanus shot since 2017. She was due. He went into a whole spiel on tetanus shots, and how important it was she have one. He spent more time on THAT than on her head. 

He sent in another nurse to give the shot, and she was full of the old Harry, as they say. She was not a serious person. She gave Mam the shot, but when it was time to put the band-aid on, she didn't remember where she gave the shot, so she just slapped the band-aid on Mam's arm, and that was that. Then she had some paperwork to give us on what to do, what not to do, what to look out for, etc., and before she left, she slapped another band-aid on Mam's forehead.

We were both gobsmacked.

So we left for Starbucks because we both needed something. As I pulled up, the order-taker sounded like Tinkerbell from Boston, all those years ago. I wasn't sure I heard that voice right, but I hoped I was mistaken. All I'd need was Argiebelle in me life in New Hampshire and the day would be complete. Of course. Why wouldn't Argiebelle be working the Starbucks drive-through? This is apparently me life now. We gave the squeaky-voiced woman our order, and I slowly drove up. I was telling Mam me fears when I saw the person was not Argiebelle. Thank the Fates for small favours. I tell ya! That would be all I needed to end me day. 

While I be paying for our coffees, Mam was busy looking in the mirror. When I looked at her, she had put a smiley face on the band-aid.

Yup!

"Who are you?" I asked her. She just laughed.

Apparently, cracking her head had turned her into Weasil.

The coffee cups, yes, the cups. They, too, added to a crazy day. Hers:

"Yum" indeed

And here is mine, with God knows what that says. It's supposed to say 'Enjoy', I assume. 

Mam said it says, "'Enj oz' like in 'annoys" 

I do believe it does. And frankly, after the day I'd had, "annoys" was far more appropriate than "enjoy."

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved 

"Numb Drops For Dumb Drops"

22 August 2026

2006

R. Linda (HAPPY BIRTHDAY MUSIE):

I basically locked meself in me office to get away from the craziness that was infesting me abode. Yes, me wife pounded pathetically on me office door for me to come out, or she was going to get a ladder and have her mother climb through me window to chase me out. Yup, that's what she threatened.

I reluctantly opened me door and let her in, BUT I locked it behind her so no one else could enter.

"YOU invited your two cohorts to stay, and YOU disappear, leaving ME to entertain THEM."

"Tonya, I'd be so sorry, but if I am with them, I will become a raging alcoholic or worse, a murderer. I just can't do it."

"Stop it!" She then sighed and sat down. 

I knew she wasn't venturing back out there if she could help it. So that left the two miscreants with me, little grey-haired, apple-cheeked Mam, and HER mother, the Dragon, and luckily the three kiddos were all at summer camp, so they couldn't be corrupted by the two insane houseguests. 

"You do know that within an hour your mother will be in the kitchen poisoning their food and my mother will be behind the curtains hiding."

"Now that's a thought and a picture," I said. "Okay, okay, I will go out there, try to find something for them to do."

"Here's a thought, why don't you three take a nice scenic drive to the Cape and spend a few nights there?"

Ah, I could see what she was doing; she was getting rid of the male population of the house so she and the two ladies (and I use that term sparingly on the Dragon) could have peace and quiet in the abode by themselves.

'Uh . . . no. You are not making me drive several hours in a car with those two. I'd be a crazy person by the end of the driveway, so no."

"You need to think of something to do with them." She cried, exasperated. 

"Well, I could make that eye doctor appointment for Robbie. Get them both out of the house for a little bit. What harm can they do in a doctor's office, eh?"

"Yes, Gabe, you do that." And with that, she got up, unlocked me door, held it open for me, and escorted me to the kitchen, where Robbie, at least, was eating everything we had. 

A little background here: After the 'haunted house' craziness of the night before, and after Sam and Ms. Jaio left (which was before she found out what hand Sam had in scaring the hell out of her - oh what I wouldn't have given to be a fly in the car on that drive home), and Dragon took her chuckling and self-satisfied self to bed, the two crazies were in the kitchen having thirds and fourths on dessert and regaling me poor little grey-haired Mam with what went on in the house. This rancorous retelling had finally got to the Weasil because Robbie made a fool out of him, and the Weasil was not taking kindly to it. Suddenly, without warning (but I saw it coming just by the slits for eyes the Weasil was sporting and the deep frown on his mouth as he looked at his oblivious tattling friend), I knew that no good was coming Robbie's way. Just as Weasil was about to poke Robbie in the shoulder, Robbie shifted position and got a finger (with some force) in the eye. That had to hurt; I saw it and wow!

Well, Mam got a cold cloth, Weasil was saying sorry (and I knew he didn't mean it), Robbie was wailing and holding the eye like it was falling out of the socket. A sleepy Tonya just stood there looking like a Cheshire Cat with a smirk on her face, but then realising her appearance she bolted into, "Oh, that must have smarted, here let me help." 

But she didn't. She ran over to the sink to watch me Mam wring a cold cloth out, then watched as Mam gently took Robbie's hand from his very swollen, red eye and placed the cold compress over it, cooing Mam comforting words.

"Well, that's taken care of, I'm off to bed," I announced to the women's horror.

"Me too!" Weasil said we both walked out and went our separate ways.

So this morning when I walked down to breakfast, the first thing I saw was this gigantic bulging white bandage over Robbie's eye. I wanted to turn around and get in my car and drive away to Dunkin', but I had been seen by me apple-cheeked, grey-haired Mam, so I had to go in there. Weasil was slumped over a gigantic coffee cup and looking sheepish. 

I went to pour meself a cuppa joe, but the pot was empty. I held it up and turned to look at the giant cup Weasil had. He must have poured the whole pot into that cup, since none of us will let him drink directly from the coffee pot!

Not hiding me displeasure, I slammed around making another pot and standing in front of it to make sure the coffee glutton didn't get up for a refill. 

"So Robbie, how's the eye?" I asked while I waited.

"Dinnae fash yersel'." Said he, which means not to worry, but in this case, just looking at the size of that bandage, well . . . 

Without losing a beat, the Weasil says to me, "Whit's the craic?" 

"I be askin' after Robbie's eye is all," I said. "Robbie, do ye need to see a doctor?" 

"Aye, would be a good idea." He said as Weasil scowled at the news.

"I'll luck one oop fer the laddie," me Mam volunteered, sliding the biggest omelette I'd ever seen from fry pan to Robbie's plate. Weasil looked put out that she was going to all this trouble for Robbie and not him.

So later, armed with this memory, I found the two still in the kitchen, me Mam cooking away God knew what Scottish delicacy she could think of to make Robbie feel better (who was milking this for all he was worth), meanwhile, making Weasil feel as guilty as Weasil could ever feel about that emotion, which wasn't very guilty, just a tad. 

"Did ye find a doctor, or no?" I asked.

"Oh, aye, we did. Got an appointment at 2." Robbie said.

I glanced at me watch. 

"Well, it's 1:15, so ye better get finished here and get a move on if you're going to make it." I said, as I watched me Mam turn to me and mouth, 'bless you."

Somehow, I got roped into driving them both to Manchester to see an optometrist. Well, not somehow, Tonya made sure I was driving them because, "We don't want them to get lost." Oh, yes, we do. 

Once we had checked in, we were instantly taken to a room. I say 'we' because Robbie insisted we two support him. It seems Robbie laid it on thick; it was an emergency and needed to be seen straight away. The technician came in, gently removed the huge bandage, and pointed a penlight in his eye, which made him baulk. She then explained she was putting drops in his eyes to numb the pain so she could proceed with the preliminary exam before "doctor comes in."

Well, she got her prelim in and left us to wait for doctor. That had to be the most pain-filled 20 minutes I've spent in a long time. Robbie got out of his chair and walked over to the eyedrops. 

"Hum, numbing drops," he said, "ye wanna 'ave a laugh?"

"Sure," Weasil said.

"Sit in the chair, let's numb those eyeballs." And Weasil did, and Robbie squeezed the drops in as I sat there speechless, too scared to stop him.

"Oh! Hold on, Weaz. Look at dessie, the ones that make yer eye whites turn yellow, and then yer eyes glow in the dark!"

"Give way wit 'em," Weasil said, putting his head back as dumbarse squeezed some drops in.

"You both have to stop this!" I said, getting up. I took the drops away from Robbie, capped them and put them back.

"I suppose dess means ye dunt want any yersel?" Robbie said.

I started a tirade on what they were both thinking and such that he finally put a hand in front of me face and said, "Haud yer wheesht! Keep the heid aboot ye."

I muttered under me breath, "Numb drops for dumb drops."

The doctor entered just seconds later. If he had been a second earlier, he would have caught the two messing with his eyedrops.

Robbie's prognosis was good. He had sustained quite the poke, but the eye would be fine in a day or so and didn't need any drops (which was music to me ears; I had visions of both of them squeezing off rounds in me dog's eyes and such). As the doctor went to turn the light back on, he had turned it off for his exam, he stopped and looked at Weasil, his hand on the light switch. I looked at Weasil, then Robbie turned in his chair and looked at Weasil. The laddie's eyes were bright yellow and glowing in the dark. 

"What on earth—"

Weasil blinked at him.

"Wot?"

"Your eyes."

"Wot bout me eyes?"

The doctor stepped closer.

Robbie suddenly became very interested in the floor tile.

I became very interested in Robbie becoming very interested in the floor tile as well.

"Have you been having any problems with YOUR vision?" the doctor asked.

"Uh . . . no."

"Any pain?"

"Uh . . . no."

"Blurred vision?"

"Nooo, why?"

The doctor leaned closer, and Weasil leaned back and as far away as the chair allowed. 

"Your sclera are extremely yellow."

"Me WOT?"

"The whites of your eyes. You're not a liver patient, are you?"

Weasil's hands flew to his face. "WOT'S WRONG WIT ME EYES, DOC?"

"I don't know yet."

That was it. The Weasil went white. "IMA GOIN' BLIND!"

"Naw, naw," Robbie said soothingly. "Dinnae fash yoursel'."

I looked at Robbie hard, and he looked back at me. The corner of his mouth twitched.

The doctor reached for his penlight, and Weasil shot backwards in the chair.

"WAIT! Is this from pokin' 'em in the eye? Can ye catch sumthin' frum pokin' sumbody in the eye?"

"No."

"Could me eyeballs fall out?"

The doctor stared at him. I stared at him. Robbie turned his back because his shoulders had started shaking. Then the doctor looked toward the counter. At the bottles. Then at Weasil. At Robbie. And, finally, ME!

"Did someone put fluorescein in his eyes?"

Silence, absolute, beautiful silence. 

Then Robbie, the treacherous bastard, pointed at Weasil and said, "He volunteered."

"I DINT KNOW IT TURNED YER FECKIN' EYES THAT YELLOW!"

The doctor flipped the light switch and closed his eyes for a moment. I knew that look. I'd been wearing it since these two arrived. 

Ten minutes later, we were escorted out of the office with Robbie under strict instructions to leave his injured eye alone. Weasil, under equally strict instructions not to put anything else in his eyes, and both of them under what I strongly suspect was an unspoken instruction never to return.

On the drive home, Weasil spent fifteen solid minutes checking his eyes in the vision mirror.

"Are they still yellow?"

"Yup," I said.

Five minutes later—

"Still?"

"Yup."

Another five—

"Now?"

I glanced in the rear-view mirror.

Robbie was sitting beside him with his good eye closed, trying desperately not to laugh.

"Oh, aye," I said. "Brighter, actually."

"BRIGHTER?"

I smiled and turned me eyes back to the road. 

Gabe

Copyright © 2026 All rights reserved