Big Orange Starts the Death Match

5….

4….

Big Orange Rising

     The  seconds, minutes, and hours, without sun, darted in a flash for the entire clan.  The rocky sand from the South China Sea dotted Sheppy's black fur from nose to tail.  The homes near Sheppy protected with brick, and sometimes concrete. Most of the protectors had serviced their inhabitants for nearly a century. The sand failed to attach to the yellow spot under Sheppy's stomach.  His ribs stuck out far enough to nearly mix the yellow and white.  White seeds of wisdom plotted Sheppy's feeder's  head. The time without sun crashed into another morning for his gentle soul topped in white. Twenty three stairs above it all, the moisture from his bristles stuck to its cotton square. Outside, the light turned off, and turned back on. Neither signaled his bristles' nemesis to take a pause.

      Big Orange blasted her disruptions for all to see, but each with a different impact.  1/4 of the clan took a direct hit. Poor Sheppy, already sanded up from nose to tail, absorbed the brunt of her punishment from his precious patch of pavement in front of the most experienced man around’s, humble abode. Big Orange intensified Sheppy’s magnificent sniffer with the pile of stale beer bottles drunk by his bristles waiting to be turned back in, for spare change for Sheppy's feeder.. To a man with four legs, no smell is a bother. A two-legged fella might have a go at Big Orange for this unsolicited gesture. Big Orange did not rest her havoc. She jabbed her way through the naked rectangular panes of glass at sea-level, and at 23 steps above sea level. Twenty-three up took the jabs with looming fear.  The man with the experience below took the jabs as a signal to read the newspaper with Sheppy at his feet from his red chair. At sea level, the jabs of orange wore down his bristles' enemy after one more hour.

Commence the Battle at the South China Sea

The power of paint

   Anxiety packed, His Bristles, to a stiffer than, already erect bristles, state of being.  A shot of whiskey could have helped un-peal him from the square of cotton sticking to his straight toil-less devices. This more mobile version of him could have helped for the ensuing surge of his enemy.  His Bristles toiled in the art of empowering others with a language that does not skip and jump tones like their own. With no young bristles to empower, and no other legal skills to bring him employment and the ensuing sense of self-worth, His Bristles fought a stronger battle outside than the incoming enemy. The outside battle would eventually take His Bristles to a much bigger loss. The tiny toes of Paint, pattered up to number twenty two with her furry friends not far behind. His Bristles tried to rise, but stuck to his pillow. The fear stuck him down. With the final patter on number twenty three, the new struggle for His Bristles launched its start.

His Bristles' Fate of Doom

One Lonely Brush

His Bristles and Paint wanted two different things. His Bristles wanted the past to relive itself. Paint wanted a new future of its own.  Paint used to work him  in a state of gentleness, love, and compassion. His Bristles could not even recognize the scent of  his love turned foe..However, Paint offered no time for hugs and compassion.  Paint worked into the morning to fill her loneliness of  having one unwanted brush.  Paint worked without ever leaving her bucket. This offered Paint the opportunity to initiate the quest to rid herself of the dead weight, and stay within her own bucket.

Paint- The Mystery Solver

Congrats to Paint

With the sun rising, sweat beginning, and the grocery truck revving up, Paint launched into destruction of the old.

 “Ummm. Josh- When you were standing on top of the pallets of wood while painting last night, and you fell flat on your ass, and you spilled everything on you, my stuff, and me, I know how it happened. "

"You weren’t being careful.”

Paint stared through my bristles, through Sheppy, and out, to the South China Sea.

The End...

 *** Photo credit- FreeImages.Com ***