THE SLAMMER

At Grandma's house, we always know to beware when Foghorn gets into the art supplies.  On Sunday she took only a small break from creating to have some tomatoes for lunch, then disappeared back into the living room.

As we were having dessert, she appeared with a large sheet of paper and snarled, "OK, I'm investigating this case.  Whose hair is this?"  On the paper she was holding there was a fingerprint, the outline of a shoe, and, indeed, two fairly large clumps of hair.  "That's your hair!," I shrieked and demanded to know from which part of her head she cut it.  I didn't get a satisfactory answer and said that she'd get hers when Grandma took her for a haircut this week and they'd have to even all that up.  She replied with, "Touche."  She went about examining fingertips before deciding Chester was the culprit.  When Chester claimed innocence she sighed and said, "Oh, fine.  Mom did it."  I hope she never becomes a real police detective.

She returned from the living room with a paper briefcase and pulled out a pair of paper handcuffs.  I was secured and marched to the living room where she had six pieces of paper taped together hanging on the wall.  I realized this was one of those height charts they use in mug shots.  I was given my number and had my photo snapped.

Foghorn led me to Grandma's bedroom and I knew I wouldn't be emerging from my cell any time soon when I saw she had put my Project Linus knitting project on the sofa bed.  She locked me in and I spent the most pleasant half hour I had all week, knitting away in silence.  It didn't last long.  I heard sounds outside the door and when I made inquiries I simply got a nasally, "Don't open the door."  There were obvious construction noises and I began to panic.  I thought of Edgar Allan Poe's "The Cask of Amotillado" and wondered if I was being bricked in.  I soon found out what she was up to.

Shortly thereafter I heard shouts of "new prisoner" and my cellmates appeared -- my mother and her dog, Rusty.  We were soon joined by Moose, who was in for murdering a mouse, and Bunny Boopie, whose crimes are unknown.  Last to be locked in our overcrowded cell was Foghorn herself, along with Oinkers (whom she said was framed...by her).  She flopped on her prison cot and began to play an invisible harmonica.

A prison fight broke out, but Grandma and I managed not to get shanked.

We finally staged a prison break when we realized both my dogs were unattended and probably eating an entire Margarita Cake.  It was decided that K9 work might be the best form of rehabilitation for Foghorn, so we gathered leashes and headed for the park.  I have this feeling she'll be a repeat offender...


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