Ordinary Sins by Jim Heynen Page B

scoops? And two little teddy bears on every step leading upstairs? Collecting knickknacks is not unusual, but a dozen shoeboxes bulging with tiny owls? And what’s in all the bigger boxes stacked along the walls? You can’t even see out the windows.
    By the time it was obvious the hoarder was more than a collector, no one knew what to say. The last person who visited found a narrow path from the front door into the other rooms. Then she stopped allowing visitors because there was no place for them to sit if they did manage to find the path from one room to the next.
    The hoarder had enclosed herself with stuff. Teetering stacks and mounting mounds. She was practically smothering herself.
    Or was she?
    She’s sort of like a caterpillar making a cocoon, someone said.
    Single-minded in her mission, she went on filling the remaining gaps bit by bit, knitting herself in tighter—eagerly, like one who was preparing for that glorious warm day when the world would burst open around her and she could fly into the unencumbering sky on wings of many colors.

WHO LOVED HER DOG
    It was a little wiry dog. A yapper. With big bulging eyes. Not a purebred, just a tiny thing she picked up at the pound when it was the size of a rat. It was the only survivor of a litter of eight, and the mother had died at the pound after delivering. It would have been hard to imagine what the ones that didn’t survive looked like. The woman chose this leftover. She called it Pee-Wee then, and the name stuck.
    She took Pee-Wee home from the pound in a shoebox with tissue paper on the bottom. The dog was so small that she wasn’t sure of its sex until Pee-Wee lifted its leg over her two-inch high bronze fireplace cricket.
    So you’re my little boy, she said, though gender and size were never factors in this woman’s affection for Pee-Wee.
    When Pee-Wee was full-grown—or at least as big as he was likely to get—he was not only a wiry yapper with bulging eyes, he was a shiverer. He yapped and trembled and trembled and yapped, all the while glaring at strangers with his bulging eyes. Pee-Wee had long toenails that clicked like little icicles and scratched the wood floor. When he ran around yapping in a state of great excitement, he had bladder control problems.
    Nothing about Pee-Wee bothered this woman. She held his shaking, wiry, yapping tiny body as if he were the most precious creature on earth. She cradled Pee-Wee on her lap when people visited, constantly stroking his trembling body, and saying, There there, my sweet. There there.
    She had pictures of Pee-Wee sitting on her piano. She had an assortment of little sweaters for Pee-Wee hanging by the front door. She had a lavender silk-covered cushion for Pee-Wee to sleep on, though Pee-Wee rarely settled down long enough for a nap.
    When people first saw this woman with her dog, some thought she was more than a little strange to love an uncontrollable freak of nature named Pee-Wee. Those who saw them together often felt something else happening. Their eyes moved past the jittery dog and to the calm hands and eyes of the woman. Her affection for the dog moved out and around her like an aura that filled the room. Some felt their own eyes staring, almost bulging, in the direction of the lady, as if they were trying to understand the small creatures that trembled inside themselves.

WHO LOVED COMBUSTION ENGINES
    This man loved combustion engines. All kinds. All sizes. He loved the sound of ignition, the firing up—from the calm purr of his large car engine to the fierce whining of his chain saw. He loved them all equally, like children with different but admirable talents: his self-propelled lawn mower, his leaf blower, his Jet Ski, his snowmobile, his speedboat, his motorcycle. He had a combustion engine for his wood splitter. He had a combustion engine for his back-up electrical generator.
    This man understood not only how but why a combustion engine works. He knew which