Big Tobacco: Episode 1

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A dog called Big Tobacco:

"You could name this dog something like Moxie or Pringles or Churchill, but oughtn't you name a pup such as this something like Dahmer, 911, or Shelley Winters," thought Vicky. "Come to think of it, Churchill was a manic-depressive who thrived in wartime."

Big Tobacco-or Big T.- sniffs the backyard air with the sheathed ardor of a sommelier, nostrils and clamped eyes telegraphing: "...bramble berries, incidental hay, grass scissors made by a child no older than eight, sheep hooves, skunk tears..."

Vicky shows a wax likeness of herself, tableau-style, atop a rise in the gallery of her house. Her husband used to call this room the great room, but that's not her problem anymore. The tableau in question employs a telephone of the future from 1955- with the dial on the base- placed in "Vicky's" hand and wielded as if a lively repartee had erupted between "she" and the other wax figure who'd just called her up on a lark.

This is not her house, but you get the idea.

Her nieces once said the tableau telephone looked a bit like a you-know-what, so they were sent out front to re-segregate the taupe gravel pieces and sparkly white gravel pieces defining geometric space next to the driveway. 

                          

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When no one is around, Vicky sits in bed with a selection of knives placed carefully on a rolling tray to her left. She's waiting for something to happen-something specific.

"It's not sad," she told herself. "Drinking after five is completely natural. As long as I don't overdo it and wind up lengthening my reflex response time." This upsurge of optimism caused her to change back into white slacks before dinner.

TO BE CONTINUED...

In our next episode, Big Tobacco is captured and turned into a rug.