The Prairie Spy

Alan “Lindy” Linda

“It seems to me,” said Trugood the Kitchen Table to me just now, “that you could find time in your retirement to pay some attention to me.”

(Yes. I know. A talking kitchen table. It was bad enough that all the appliances could speak, but now this.  You  can see the problem, right? We’re knee-to-knee with him three times a day. No escape. At least the appliances are spread out.)

“And by the way,” he said, “Everyone calls me Sir Goody.” Sir Goody, bless his pompous little wooden heart, went on to list step by step his genetic wood ancestry all the way back to King Arthur’s Round Table.

“Matter of fact,” he mused, “you know that toilet paper you wiped with this morning?”

Um, yes.

“Those paper sections were probably second cousins.”

I decided to change the subject.

What seems to be the problem, Sir Goody? (After all, how many problems can a four-legged talking table have? Really?)

Quite a few, it turns out, as he rambled on: “I’ve been reading those magazines and newspapers which you courteously have left on my, umm, how can I say, on my stomach.” he giggled self-consciously. Apparently some Victorian body-prudishness has passed down the wooden line to him.

And he can read. In stuff that talks to me, that’s new. I’m more shocked about his ability to read than I am his talking, which shows you how far along toward acceptance of looney-bin

insanity I’ve come.

“I see by the Sunday paper that you Hoomans seem to be developing some serious problems.” ((I guess he means “Humans.”)) ( Probably. We do seem to have our share of them lately.)

“Maybe,” he said, “we should talk about those new pictures of that astronomical black hole scientists have just found in outer space.”

Okay. What about it?

“Is it going to eat us up?” he asked. “You know what Stephen Hawking said about them,” Sir Goody said, sounding worried.

Nope, I told him. It’s too far away. Not going to be a problem. Don’t worry. (Wow. The table not only talks,  but it knows about the space-time continuum.

“Then how about California and Arizona and them running out of water? Should we worry about them?”

Well. I guess he has been reading the magazines and books that are strewn around on top of him.

I told him: We can worry about them, but aside from planting more trees, there’s only a little we can do for them. Hoomans don’t like to get involved in things like the warming of the planet, more recycling of trash, and the carbon dioxide emitted by our machines.

Sir Goody said: “Hmmm. So,” he said slowly, “Hoomans just like to mostly write articles about it, rather than do something about it?”

(Just my luck. I have to not only have a talking table,  but one that’s apparently high on the smart half of the human IQ bell curve.)

Look, I told him, I’m just trying to eat breakfast here and read the Sunday paper. Is there anything else?

“Yes,” he answered, “was there an earthquake here lately?”

No, I told him. Why?

“I feel kind of shaky. Are you sure there wasn’t an earthquake?”

Hmmm, I said.

At that, I lifted the table cloth. Well. Two of his feet weren’t even on the floor. No wonder he was shaky. I leveled him up

.“Oh, that’s much better,” he said, sounding much relieved.

“Well,” he said, “perhaps my skewed view of all Hooman problems were due to the fact that my legs weren’t leveled.”’

“Too bad you Hoomans aren’t levelable,” he said to me.