Thursday January 9, 2020 Townhall Coffee

“Vat ya doin’ dere, Sven?” Ula asked, leaving his pickup. “Bear’s a l’l ol’ to catch dem l’il balls vun after anudder like dat, eh. Can’t ya yust feed ‘em to ‘im in a bowl?”

“Nah, Ula,” Sven said, not looking directly at Ula. “Dese line up yust perfect in ‘is intest tines sose dey don’t bunch up. Don’t be vantin’ dat.”

"The large black curly-haired dog sitting patiently in front of him . . ."

Sven readied another ball, about the size of a quarter coin, to toss toward the large black curly-haired dog sitting patiently in front of him whose sole attention was riveted on Sven’s hand. “If’n ‘ed be eatin’ dese outa da bowl ‘ed be volfin’ ‘em down all mashed up-like. Can’t ‘ave dat. I need ‘em ‘ole.”

“Vat? Ya need ‘em ‘ole?” Ula exclaimed, his red-orange eyebrows pinched together at his nose. He was quite perplexed as to Sven’s meaning, a possibility of which, he thought, must not be reality. “Vat ya talkin’ ya need vat ‘ole?” he ventured, hanging back from getting too close should he have to suddenly run back to his Toyota S5R Trapping Truck, and get the hell out of Dodge. “Yer perplexin’ me ‘ere Sven. Vat yew doin’ to dat ol’ dog?”

“Yust makin’ coffee,” Sven said casually, tossing yet another ball of something at the big old dog whose mouth opened at the precise second, shut with a ‘clomp,’ eliciting an almost imperceivable ‘thup’ as the ball was sent on its way into the dog’s great beyond. “I'm goin’ ta be rich.”

“Yer makin’ coffee, ya ol’ tosser?” Ula scoffed, quite put off by Sven’s off-handed explanation of his actions. “‘ow in da sam ‘ell youse doin’ dat by tossin’ l’il balls of food into dis ‘ere’s dog’s maw? Dere’s somet’ing not right vit’ yer t’inkin’, udder den vat’s been wrong vit it dese past 70 years. Makin’ coffee, dat’s rich.”

“Yah, an rich I’m goin’ ta be too, Ula,” Sven said evenly, still concentrating on feeding Bear one round ball at a time, in sequence. “Dis ‘ere ol’ dog an’ me vill be puttin’ Vannaska Township on da map. I’ll maybe open a coffee ‘ouse in da ol’ town'all.”

Ula, as patient a man that ever waited a squirrel out of its hole, a skunk from under a porch, or a raccoon down from a tree along a cornfield, leapt from his position beside his truck and deftly snatched the next ball of food meant for Bear’s mouth, in mid-air, leavin’ the old dog confused and worried over where it had gone, if not in his mouth; and Sven, a bit violent, because of Ula’s interruption of his trajectory, resulting in an incompletion of its delivery.

“Dis ‘ere’s not food!” blustered Ula, looking closely at the round ball of something in his three-fingered hand. “Dis ‘ere’s a bean! It’s a friggen BEAN!”

“I cudda tol’ ya dat Ula, ya vanker!” shouted Sven in his excited-like high girly-guy voice. “Yah, it’s a coffee cherry bean I’m importin’ frum sumvere an’ I don’ vant every body in da verld to know ‘bout it ‘til I’m damn good an’ ready! Now vere ver ve? Bear! Sit! Gimme dat bean!” And with that he snatched the bean from Ula’s grasp.

Bear, satisfied he hadn’t lost the last bean thrown him, ambled over to where he had been sitting for over an hour near the front of Sven’s outdoor recliner. Bear sat down heavily with a “hrumph” and retrained his gaze once again on Sven’s hand tentatively holding another cherry bean.

“Yer feedin’ dat poor ol’ dog dese ‘ard l’il coffee beans?" Ula asked, looking at the open, half-empty, fifty pound sack he could now see behind Sven. “Are ya daft, man? ‘e’ll not be digestin’ ‘em. ‘ell shit dem right out. Vat’s gotten into ye? Is dis anudder vun of yer get rich schemes?”

“Dat’s da point, Ula,” answered Sven, who was back to his routine. “‘e yust absorbs da cherry fruit of da bean, eh. It goes ‘round an' round a bit, den ‘e shucks da rest outa ‘is behind, ‘ole like. An’ dats vat I vant. Yust like dat. I’ll be rich quick. ‘ow’d ya know?”

Shaking his head in confusion Ula stammered, “Now ya be tellin’ me, as ya are, ya are feedin’ Bear coffee cherries. Bear, ya beloved canine companion, sose ‘e eats’ em an’ poops ‘em out, an’ ya picks up ‘is poop, an’ ya uses it to make . . . coffee . ... .? Can’t ya yust grind dem beans yerself before ‘e eats ‘em, like normal people? Despite da fact ya aren’t normal, strictly speakin’?’”

“Ya don’t get it, Trapper Man,” Sven answered, never taking his eyes off Bear, and Bear never taking his eyes off Sven. “It ain’t da same tastin’ coffee.”

And with that, Sven tossed another cherry bean to Bear, who opened his floppy-lipped, almost-all-his-teeth toothed mouth at just the right time to catch it, swallowed it whole with a ‘thup” back in his throat, loosed his lips and awaited fer yet anudder coffee cherry bean in four seconds.

“DUH! exclaimed Ula quite flabbergasted about this whole insane conversation. “YA T’INK? YA T’INK DAT MAKIN’ COFFEE VIT A CHERRY BEAN NOT POOPED OUT A DOG’S BUTT VUD TASTE DIFF’RUNT DEN VUN DAT VAS??? YER FRIGGEN INSANE!!

Ula spit taked, waving his nine-fingered hands in the air high above his head like someone off his feed may do in similar circumstances.

"I DON'T KNOW VY I EVER COME OVER 'ERE! YER A FRIGGEN MYTHOMANE! A MICAWBER! YER TOTALLY SUPERVENIENT! OF ALL DA PEPPLE IN DIS ‘ERE VERLD, I ‘AVE TO ‘AVE A FRIEND WHO MAKES COFFEE OUTA DOG POOP! VAIT TIL DA TOWNSHIP ‘EARS ‘BOUT DIS!”

Sven never took his eye off the ball . . . er, bean. He just sat forward on his recliner, lopping coffee cherries at Bear, every four seconds, who kept opening his mouth at just the right time.

“Are ya t’rough actin’ da fool, Ula? Yer antics are vorryin’ me yust a little,” Sven said reachin’ into the cherry bean bag beside his chair. “Dis ‘ere ain’t nut’in’ off da vall. Ya can go on-line and see fer yerself: https://enjoyjava.com >civet-coffee. 

Dese guys ‘ave been makin’ coffee outa civet cat poop fer a lot of years -- an’ get dis, dey call ‘em Palm civet cats. You gotta know it’s all good stuff, den eh? An’ dey been chargin’ anyvere ‘tween t’irty-five and a hunnert dollars a cup yust to drink it! Yah, yah it’s all on-line check it out!

Dem civet cat turds are yust da size of a peanut and ol’ Bear’s turds--you’ve seen ‘em -- are ‘n easy five times dat big. Guts is guts, Ula. If dem l’il civet cats -- de’re really yust l’il veasels vit a diff’runt name -- can ferment dese ‘ere cherry beans in dere insides, t’ink vat an’ eatin’ machine like ol’ Bear can do! Uffda! Ve got a whole brewery and bott’ler in dere! And ve’ll treat Bear real good to boot; four days on, t’ree days off to keep ‘im in tip-top condition.”

Ula stood still, dumbfounded, looking at Sven as if he had just said he was pregnant and decided to have it naturally, surrounded with scented candles, bathed in essential oils and listening to the sound of crick water lapping along the bank, then he said, “Ya might ‘ave somet’ing dere, Sven. Vill ya need any ‘elp ‘arvesting dese little nuggets?”