It’s been raining all day here. A perfect day for staying inside and brooding. My bungalow is Noah’s Ark with just two creatures on board, the cat and I — unless I’m Noah (which is highly unlikely since Noah was 600 years old at the time), and Bella the cat is 7,000 different kinds of animals. Anything’s possible I suppose.
Searchers to this day are still looking for the Ark, even though there’s no historical or geological evidence of a flood of such Biblical proportions as written in Genesis 6-9.
The Ark, measured in cubits, was the equivalent of a vessel 450 feet long (135 meters), 75 feet wide (22.5 meters) and 45 feet high (13.5 meters).
That’s so much Biblically larger than my bungalow that I probably couldn’t fool the Searchers (although they do tend to sound a tad gullible), but since we’re suspending all disbelief here, the Ark searchers might just as well look no further than County Road 9, the structure on the corner with just two creatures on board, a slightly younger Noah and one cat.
NOT BUNGALOW BILL
My name is not Noah, of course, but I’ll say it is when they discover us, anything to get my name in the paper.
My name is Bill, nothing Biblical about that, and I do live in a bungalow, but I must hasten to point out that I am not ‘Bungalow Bill’ of the Beatles song.
I am not a “bullet-headed saxon mothers son” who hunts and shoots tigers for the hell of it. I wouldn’t even kill a mouse, or even a moth — I leave the killing to Bella.
THE DARK AND SORRY SKY
But back to my brooding, which is what I do now. I’m getting pretty good at it. If they held a brooding contest, I bet I would win.
The prize would probably be a swift kick in the ass, which is seated now in an armchair by the window watching the sorry sky crying its pitiful heart out, so dark, even darker since the death of my wife.
This would be a perfect day to be with her, inside this cozy bungalow, watching old movies or reading, just sitting in the living room together, just the two of us, with Bella on mouse patrol.
Around five o’clock we’d get into the cocktails, my wife and I, not the cat. It would still be raining. We wouldn’t care. We like the sound of rain on the roof. Like Eddie Rabbitt, we love a rainy night.
