A Linus-Monster Triptych
(from The House on Boulevard and Street)
_______________
Preface
Every morning, a sermon of paws and play.
The light arrives tentative, the air still remembering its night chill.
Linus takes the pulpit of dew; the squirrels,
their choir loft along the fence.
There are no hymns, only chase and chatter,
a faith built on repetition and delight.
We are the congregation in slippers,
holding mugs like chalices,
learning again how joy can be its own obedience.
To live is to notice.
To notice is to praise.
_______________
I. Ode to Linus and the Fence-Top Ballet
Mornings, Linus takes attendance.
The yard, the fence, the usual suspects,
two gray squirrels, jittery as espresso,
already running their fence-top circus
like they’ve been rehearsing all night.
Linus pretends not to care.
He sniffs a leaf, looks philosophical,
then - snap! - off he goes,
tail streaming like a comet,
ears flapping out a drumroll.
The squirrels shriek with laughter,
pirouette, skitter,
leap the gap between fence posts
as if auditioning for
The Nutcracker: Backyard Edition.
Linus never wins,
but that’s not the point.
This is not hunting,
this is jazz.
Improvised, ridiculous, alive.
We stand with our coffee,
applauding the chaos,
predicting the day they’ll misstep,
but secretly hoping they never do.
Because the world needs this...
a hound in full pursuit of joy,
squirrels heckling from the high wire,
and us - late to everything,
but right on time for the show.
_______________
II. Linus at Rest (After the Chase)
Now the morning’s come apart,
sun climbing higher,
the squirrels gone
to whatever conference
squirrels attend after victory.
Linus lies beneath the maple,
his chest rising slow as a hymn.
A single paw twitches -
maybe he’s still chasing them
somewhere behind his closed eyes.
The fence hums quiet now,
a wooden memory of applause.
Even the breeze sounds tired,
shuffling the leaves
like a bored usher after the play.
Inside, our mugs are empty,
but the air still smells
of dew, and coffee,
and something that could be peace...
if peace wore fur and snored softly.
We watch him dream,
and for once,
nobody wants the day to start.
_______________
III. The Squirrels Hold a Meeting Without Him
When Linus naps,
the squirrels convene.
You can tell by the rustle -
important voices,
tiny but grave.
They pace the fence like philosophers,
tails twitching with agenda.
I imagine the minutes recorded
in acorn script:
Item One: Review of Morning Pursuit.
Item Two: Strategy for Tomorrow’s Taunting.
One raises a paw:
“We must remain unpredictable.”
Another nods,
“Agreed. The south fence first.
Then bait him with the walnut trick.”
They’re serious little tacticians,
these woodland generals,
plotting chaos beneath
the guise of cuteness.
Linus snores on, unaware,
his back legs kicking
at invisible victories.
The meeting adjourns
with a chatter of laughter
and a final bound into the maple.
And just like that,
the stage resets itself -
the fence, the yard,
the faithful audience of two.
Tomorrow the game begins again:
one hound, two squirrels,
and the ancient, necessary
ritual of joy.
_______________
Author’s Note
The Linus Triptych began, like most small miracles, with nothing special at all—just a dog, a fence, two squirrels, and a morning that felt half-awake. But as I stood there with a mug cooling in my hand, watching Linus charge the fence line for the hundredth time, something clicked: this wasn’t just play. It was faith, disguised as foolishness.
Linus knows he’ll never catch them.
The squirrels know they’ll never be caught.
And yet, each dawn, they meet again,
partners in a choreography of purpose.
That’s the rhythm of love, isn’t it?
We chase, we fail, we return.
We rise early for the same old miracle
and call it ordinary life.
The longer I live in this house on Boulevard and Street,
the more I believe that holiness happens in repetition,
in the things we keep doing
because they keep making us whole.
To watch Linus is to be reminded that joy requires effort.
To sip coffee beside The Steady One,
listening to the world rehearse itself again,
is to learn what devotion truly means.
The poems here are about that small revelation...
how a backyard can be a chapel,
how laughter can sound like prayer,
and how the heart, stitched like a baseball or wagging like a tail,
keeps finding reasons to chase the light.
GBS
2016
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