Note from Fr. Paul: Moses said to me last night, “Pa, I’m sorry, but with these paws of mine, I can’t type on your iPad, so could I just tell you my thoughts, and you write them down for me?” “Yes, Moses,” I replied, “I will write down whatever you tell me.” “And would you send it out so others can hear my thoughts, too?” “Yes, little one, I will send what you write to be posted for others to read. Just keep it brief.” “Pa, have I ever said much?” “No. Moses.” “Okay, now just type what I say, please."
If my Pa becomes a hermit Call me Moses. That’s the name my Pa, my human master, gave me. (You know him as “Fr. Paul” and “Bill,” but he’s Pa to me.) He also calls me Mousi, the Moose, and Mani, and now Butterball. (Yes, I was eating Zoe’s food for the past several weeks—and mine, too!). [Editor’s note: Moses has been known to filch food off of counters, too. He plays “grab and run” really well. He is not as innocent as he looks.] I know that I don’t shine the way Zoe used to—and still does—but Pa tells me that I am “a good boy.” Okay, I am not so bright, not so fresh and creative, but I am usually well behaved. Besides, some people think that I am a lovable fellow. I need people. Pa is not enough for me. I am talking to you now because I am concerned about this hermit thing. My Pa a hermit? Your “Fr. Paul” a hermit? Makes me wonder about you human beings and your strange, two-legged ways. It is true. Pa called me “Moses of Lone Willow” as my registered name. So maybe back then he was already thinking about taking a hike into the woods, sitting down under a willow tree, and eating berries—you know, the way hermits do. Who else but a hermit would think about Lone Willows? Besides, I came equipped as a standard boy dog, but Pa had a dog-doctor cut off my boy parts. I did not ask for that, I was not consulted. He forced it on me. Was that right? How would you like it? Is that what hermits do? Maybe so. Better to eat more berries, and leave me alone. I am six years old—see, this many. 6. My Pa is old. His hair is almost on fire. My hair is black, but now he is turning me white, too. White like him. Hermits must like white hair. And eating lots of granola and berries in the woods. Do they smoke stinky plants in the woods, too? I wonder. Now I ask you: Is my human Pa a hermit? He had a girl friend, you know. She lived here with us for a long time. Do boy hermits have girl friends? It was Zoe. He loved her very much. They made a nice couple. Is that the way hermits live? Maybe I should be a hermit, and get a girl friend. But would she love me the way I am now? Pa told me that hermits live in poverty, that they own almost nothing. Boy, does my old man spend money, and have lots of stuff! He buys many bags of food, and drives us around in a fancy white car he calls “Princeton.” Do hermits drive around in Cadillacs? Do hermits have an iPhone and an iPad? Do they have lots of books—like my Pa does? Pa has a casket, too. Maybe hermits sleep in caskets. Seems really weird to me. What more can I say? Just ask me. I live with your “Fr. Paul.” He talks to me a lot. In fact, he rarely shuts up. Do hermits talk so much? He’s not a bad guy, really. I like him most of the time. He feeds me lots of food. He even shares his blueberries with me. Are hermits so generous? If my Pa becomes a hermit, what happens to me? Your friend, Moses |
04 February 2014
Moses writes a brief memo on my being a hermit
