The Rós Dubh of Chindogu.

The Rós Dubh of Chindogu 3.2.21

by Ina B. Sentia

Her eyes slowly opened but the confusion remained. Where was she? The Florentine open market by the Duomo? The backseat of a beat down, monkey shit brown Mustang? A cruelty-free bakery in upstate New York (i.e., Yonkers)? No. She was still in her bungalow/long-term hotel room rental in beautiful downtown Burbank. Sunlight tore through her window like a Bison greeting the tourist that is hoping to pet the fluffy cow. The groggy woman lifted her hands to block the solar intensity that was hoping to make her eyes burn, and thought “Why hasn’t anyone invented powdered sun yet?”

Rós Dubh (aka “she”) felt for the undernourished notebook in the back pocket of her jeans. She was more relieved than a dog approaching his favorite fire hydrant when her fingers felt the familiar polyhedral shape. The expertly crafted metaphor also reminded her that she needed to, as the Americans say, “make use of the facilities.” As Rós Dubh rose for said bathroom trip, she had to push away several Bodhisattva balloons. How did those balloons get in here? Our heroine put her mind in gear to think about this. “I’m not even Jewish” she noted as her brain was fumbled out of bounds. “Well; not important right now,” trickled her words downward as the bathroom door clicked shut and she prioritized her bodily functions over religious designations.

Our Black Rose’s return to the spartan “living room” reminded her of a pressing concern: the absence of money. The various creations of this master inventor had won her neither the fortune, fame, or fortune, that her empty stomach and insecurity desired. What about the “Hammerrisk™,” an important tool to be used when both hammer and whisk are simultaneously required? Unrewarding spiritually and financially, although quite popular amongst the niche group of carpenter chefs most societies possess. Rós Dubh had believed that the “BackCycLight™” would surely satisfy the needs of those cyclists hoping to see where they have been on night rides. Installation of the light to the cyclist’s back via the popular “CamelStomach™” hydration system was as easy and quick as teaching a blind man to sell Venetian blinds. Sadly, it was not to provide the financial windmill she had imagined. Stupid cyclists. Le sigh…….

Rós Dubh flipped through the pages in her little black inventor’s book (misleading, as she was not a black inventor, nor little), looking for a blended cocktail of realities that would prolong the fate of the world. She knew that to seek an invention that did not fall into the Venn Diagram of Chindogu was going to be as difficult as walking along a razor’s edge with her umbrella shoes. She stretched and yawned, which is the international sign language used as the silent scream for coffee. She moved to the kitchenette’s spacious counters to begin her mindful morning ritual of grinding the coffee beans, heating the water, and milking the teats of her Almond Cows™ to experience the joy of non-dairy foam for her cappuccino. These steps were all performed in the meditative manner of her Irish heritage, which meant she threw away all the coffee makings and made herself a cup of tea.

Rós Dubh gritted her brow and furrowed her teeth as she sat down to watch her favorite on-demand binge-fest: “Dogs of the Roman Empire.™” This multi-tasking made her dizzy, and she accidentally spilled some of her tea onto the pristine linoleum floor. “For fuck sake,” she muttered to the Gods of Gravity. “Well,” Rós Dubh reasoned internally, “if not for gravity, the tea would remain floating in the air like a dead pigeon in a gravity-free planet.” She exhaled and scuppered off to grab a sponge while thinking that, if not upsopped, the spilled tea was bound to cause problems I do not at this moment foresee.

With her inanimate SpongeBob™ in hand, our Black Rose kneeled down to clean up the tea. Her favorite show continued on, highlighting the various duties of the ancestors to our modern-day puppy: sleep, eat, drink, and bark at what they didn’t understand. The heroine of this tome finished her cleaning, stood up, and promptly hit her head on the corner of the cabinet door. Blood was drawn like no artist had seen before. “Should have had the coffee instead,” she realized while the life-giving blood soaked into the sponge. As our sole inventor stood there watching her show document the massive advancements modern dogs have achieved, and holding the sponge on her bleeding noggin, the idea hit her like a dead pigeon dropping out of the sky in a world controlled by gravitational forces. The lightbulb in her freezer had turned on. Her recently recovered brain realized that if dogs had sponges on their paws, they could clean up spilled tea while walking around, and with no training required. The possibilities ignited her brain: the absorbent side could be face down for liquids, and the abrasive side could be face down for tougher stains. Her mind was reeling…..

Rós Dubh quickly detailed her invention in her undersized black inventor’s book, remembering to sign and date each page, as well as kissing each page with her bright black lipstick. Unfortunately, this blotted out most of the words and sketches and had to be redone. Her joy of creation robbed the hunger pains from earlier in the day and the grogginess that had been barking at her for attention. She was too busy to pay them a femtosecond of concern as she rushed to the Patent Office to detail her pawful idea. She believed her idea would revolutionize the floor cleaning industry, make her wealthier that the inventor of the ant farm (even though the ants never really grow anything), and she was correct.

After our heroine completed the patent application forms and turned them into the patent clerk, the man reviewed the forms. Rós Dubh began to leave the office when the clerk called her back with a question: “What is the name of your invention?” She beamed and responded “Dog Sponge-It™!”

Author’s note:”™” means “Teeth Marks.”