Fetch me a pileated wood-stacker!

You may be wondering why I was outside on a sunny fall afternoon having an earnest conversation with my imaginary dog, Ranger, stacking firewood.  (Meaning I was the one stacking firewood, not Ranger. If you think an imaginary dog ought to be able to stack firewood, you need to get your head examined. Then again, you’re not the one talking out loud to an imaginary dog—and why shouldn’t he be named Ranger? He looks like a Ranger.) 

I was talking to my imaginary dog because who else was I supposed to talk to? The resident lumberjack was off in Rio Grande singing like an angel and, despite my best efforts, I still don’t have a non-imaginary dog to talk to, and stacking firewood, as it happens, is a tremendously boring task that no one in his or her right mind would willingly undertake alone without a very good reason, which, at the time, was eluding me.

“Seriously, Ranger,” I said, “I wish you could explain to me why it’s so important to move chunks of firewood from Point A to Point B. I mean, I’m just planning to burn the stuff, right? So why can’t I leave the firewood in the big disorderly pile where the truck dumped it (Point A) instead of carrying each piece about six feet away to stack them in long orderly rows (Point B)?”

Ranger tilted his head as if he wished I’d toss one of those big sticks his way instead of lugging them from Point A to Point B.

“Surely there must be a reason,” I continued. Ranger wagged his tail. “Maybe the wood dries more efficiently when it’s stacked neatly, not that I'm stacking it particularly neatly. Stacking firewood isn't exactly in my wheelhouse or my skillset or whatever you want to call it." Ranger looked like he didn't care what I called it as long as I tossed him a stick. 

"It may look easy," I told him, "but wood-stacking apparently demands more talent than I possess. It's like playing a life-size game of Jenga--pull the wrong log out of the pile and the whole thing will come tumbling down on me."

Ranger looked like he thought that would be a great idea. More sticks to chase!

"And then I can't carry more than two or three pieces at a time because I lack the upper-body strength of the resident lumberjack, who, let's review, had surgery last week and is not permitted to lift anything weighing more than ten pounds until his surgeon gives him the all-clear, so he won't be moving any of this firewood from Point A to Point B any time soon."

Ranger clearly wasn't interested in Point A or Point B so much as Point Me. (Meaning him. Ranger. The imaginary dog. And if you're wondering why I still have a purely imaginary dog instead of a real one, don't get me started.)

"So here I am dutifully stacking firewood, but anyone examining the stack could easily see the line of demarcation between the very neat, tightly fitting firewood previously stacked by the resident lumberjack and the loose, leaning, threatening-to-tumble-at-any-moment stack produced in his absence by me."

Ranger looked up toward a chattering sound. Squirrel? No, pileated woodpecker. Why are there no pileated wood-pilers? I could use one right about now.

"And maybe," I continued, "this whole wood-stacking thing is all about appearances. Imagine the neighbors driving past and tut-tutting over this big messy pile of firewood, feeling sorry for those poor pathetic folks who don't know how to stack wood properly. Maybe that messy wood pile makes us look like the kind of people who store rusted trucks on blocks in the yard and toss old sofas down the hillside."

Ranger's eyes perked up.

"Would you have enjoyed chasing a sofa down the hillside?" I asked. "Even if it's a purely imaginary sofa?"

Ranger looked eager to get the game started.

But after all that wood-stacking, I lacked the strength to roll a single imaginary sofa down the hill. I may, however, have thrown an imaginary stick. It was the least I could do to reward such a brilliant conversationalist.