the story of woodstock the bird

There were some days that Charlie’s dog did not want to exit his dog house. In his simple,

canine mind, this was a day of mind degeneration. Snoopy knew that this degeneration was in

truth, self generated. In a dark corner of his Sopwith Camel doghouse lay a yellowing pile of

papers and envelopes. They were reject notices. Too many of these had done a sherman like

march over his creative energies, and a little friendly black spider have made a home of his

typewriter.

“Why can these editors not see that a loquacious dog’s point of view has value?” Snoopy’s

head drooped, his half closed eyes, studied the also pointless blades of grass near the entrance.

His mind traveled over his efforts. “Twas the best of times, twas the worst of times” he

remembered, pondering the brave collie who stood in that line to be put to sleep, letting the

lovely little cockapoodle slip away to find her owner. Then it was “A dark and stormy night.

Rex was being pummeled by hail stones as he tread through the mud and saw the dark castle.

He had heard it called the Castle of Doom. He hesitated, and then a clap of thunder and

lightning lighted the sky. He must go on....” But there, his imagery faded. What happens to

Rex? Then, his mind dwelt on the dog that lived near the Mississippi, Huckleberry Hound.

“You don’t know about me without you have read a book by the name of The Adventures of

Spot Sawyer, but that ain’t no matter. This book was made by WaterMark Snoops, and he told

the truth, mainly.” It was not easy for a dog to adopt a believable backwoodsy accent, so that

ended that effort. There were times that his claws waited in anticipation to type whatever

inspiration emanated, but alas, his mind was a blank.

Snoopy lay there, in the dark. Woodstock flew by, alighted on the entrance grass, but initially

was interested in cocking his head to hear the slight rumble of earthworms beneath the soil.

Then he did a hard smack and pulled a long one out, ignoring its frantic wiggling. Snoopy’s

mouth did an involuntary turn down, and his nozzle pulled into his neck. He hated watching

Woodstock eat those awful things, those pitiful, wiggly worms, who were just trying to get by,

enriching the soil as they traveled. Snoopy coughed, deep in his throat, partly in empathy, partly

a response to a gag. Woodstock’s neck was stretched skyward, his beak in the air as he did a

gulping motion. Then he smacked his bills in satisfaction.

“Hey why the long nose, that is, long face?” Woodstock inquired.

Snoopy studied his friend, thought of the question. “My writing career is in jeopardy. I can’t

get a good plot to write about. I’m depressed by the massive reject notices for the great classics

I have already submitted. I have had writer’s block for weeks now, total writer’s block.”

“Hey, hey, hey, Snoop old pal, why’nt you write a story about me?”

Snoopy glared at his tiny friend. Then he cupped his chin in one paw. He looked at the sky.

Then glared at Woodstock.

“Okay, Woody, tell me one thing that makes you interesting...”

Woodstock’s eyes went bright, and his winged arms went out from his side in excitement.

“Oh, yay! Get your pencil out. Lessee, where should we start. Hmmm. What’s the first thing

I remember...? Okay, ready? I can remember the noise of a bunch of people. I could hear that,

chatter, chatter, human talk ya know. Now and then a VW motor, and a female yelp. See, I was

still in that egg thing. I started pecking at it, and right off, in the first hole I made, a bunch of

smoke drifted in. Now I know that it smelled like weed. But then, hey, I’m just a baby birdy,

what did I know. It made me cough. It made my eyes burn a little. My little calcium carbonate

chamber was full of that weed smoke, and it made me want to peck faster to get to fresh air.

Soon, I was out in the open. I could look down and see people dressed like hippies all around

my tree. I could see the remnants of egg shells still in the nest. If I had brothers and sisters, they

were gone. How could they just up and leave me all alone? Down this hill of humankind, there

was a stage, guys with steel guitars, a drum set, and an electric piano. My nest shook when this

crowd started cheering. A bunch of guys showed up from backstage and manned their

instruments. They were good. No, they were great, the sound system filled all the acreage

around us. There was not an empty spot. Every inch was filled with human. I had one of the

best seats in the house. There was a pause. Some guy told jokes, made this mass laugh, and

then yelled the name of the next group, and that calamitous noise hit again, but it was okay, man,

I was getting high just by breathing in.” Woodstock paused and looked off somewhere in reverie

with a gentle smile, remembering the event. “It was a day and night one could never ever forget.

It was three days. I just kicked back in that sturdy little nest and soaked it all in.

“I almost forgot, falling out of that darned tree. Now and then, it started raining. As it got

dark, some of the humans either curled up where they were to sleep or wandered over to their

cars, pickups and vans. I realized I was hungry. There was yellow stuff on the ground that

looked good. They called it popcorn. I was trying to crawl down the branches, and had to hop

from one to another when I slipped...oops.”

Woodstock looked at Snoopy who had one finger pressed to his ‘lips’. A human was coming.

We know they go into conniptions over talking animals, and it ruins a good relationship. It was

Charlie Brown. He had a big smile and ran over to pat his dog. “Hey boy. How ya doin’ boy?

Hey, wanna play fetch? See this stick? I’m going to throw it way over there! Hey Snoop, come

on, don’t stay in your doghouse. Here goes, I’m throwing.”

Snoopy was not interested in ‘fetching’. He wanted to know what happened when Woodstock

fell. Then he thought, ‘oh well, I guess I’d better fetch a few times, or he’ll stand there staring at

me.’ So he chased that silly stick, grabbed it with his mouth and ran back, trying not to look

bored. “Good boy! Good boy!” He tossed one of those bone shaped treats on the ground, and

wandered away. Snoopy ran to it, trying to look all enthused, but when he saw Charlie wasn’t

looking, he trotted back to his dog house. He hated those flavorless, gritty bone treats

‘Dang it.’ he thought. ‘Where did that doggoned yellow bird go?’

Woodstock had flown off somewhere. “I wonder if his story would catch on?” Snoopy looked

inside his little house, and couldn’t help staring in sadness at those yellowed papers and

envelopes. “Probably not.”

Woodstock, after awakening those old memories, was overcome with nostalgia. He had

flown off to be by himself and to feel some private melancholy thoughts. It had been years

before, 1969. A beautiful hippy girl had picked him up off the damp ground and told him what a

pretty little birdy he was. She held him up to look in his little eyes and could tell that he was

high. She’s the one who named him ‘Woodstock’. He kind of fell in love with her, and she had

become his vicarious ‘mother’ figure. For the rest of the Woodstock concert, she was showing

him off to her friends, One was an almost fifty, gangly hippy who wore glasses, named Shulz.

Charles Shulz.

“Those were the days, my friend.” Woodstock thought. “We thought they’d never end.