If there’s sheepherding in your blood and you live in a dinky condo on the 18th floor, the days can get long. Oh, sure, Brad and Mindy leave the TV tuned to Animal Planet when they go to work. Can I just say “Big whoop”? They mean well, but come on. Look, it’s another episode of Emergency Vets. What’s the crisis today? “Cat swallows cuff link.” Uhhh, no thanks. Seen it. Twice.
I could eat something. In addition to the kibble du jour, which is the same every jour, there are three Cheerios behind the kitchen table leg and a drop of maple syrup in the middle of the floor. I was sort of saving those for later, though. You have to pace yourself. If I was younger, that stuff would be long gone by now. But if you do that, you’ve got nothing to think about the rest of the day except when you’ll get to pee. You want to live your life that way, that’s your business. I don’t recommend it.
Window check. Hey, cool—geese. A whole big V of them. Also, about eight million pigeons. A little altocumulus action going on to the west. Probably get some rain later.
The other day, out walking, I met this bomb sniffer. Well, he said he was a bomb sniffer. It’s not like he had I.D. Anyway, he’s all, like, “I work at the airport” and “My job is sooo vital to national security” and “The struggle against global extremism is where it’s at, homes.” And I never trust German shepherds who call me “homes,” so I go, “Ever sniff one?”, and he goes, “One what?”, and I go, “A bomb—what else?”, and he goes, “Um, I can’t really talk about that. You don’t have clearance.” Total poser! He can tell I don’t believe him, so he whispers, “I sussed out some firecrackers in a carryon once,” which makes me laugh so hard that Brad starts shushing me. And I’m like, “Dude, I doubt if you could sniff carrion in a carryon,” and then there was a lot of yelling and I got dragged away.
An actual job would be a pretty good deal, though. Proofreading. I could do that. This one time, Mindy brought home some staggeringly important brochure she was working on, and right on the cover was this gigantic error: “We’ll get you their.” So I’m trying to tell her, as calmly as I can, but still, you know, with a certain amount of urgency, and she’s just not getting it.
“Brad?” she says. “Brad! I think something’s wrong with Dobie!”
So Brad comes in and starts giving me the once-over, and meanwhile I’m going, “Hey! Hello? There, their, they’re? Homonyms? Ring a bell? Really embarrassing if you use the wrong one.”
“What is it, boy?” says Mindy. “Tell Mommy.” And even though I’m very clearly pointing to the mistake with my foot, and raising my voice just a little, Brad and Mindy suddenly go all Lassie on me. “Omigod!” Mindy shrieks. “I think I smell gas! Is it a gas leak, Dobie? Huh, boy?” Brad takes a deep whiff and goes, “You know, I believe I do smell gas.” By now I’m so disgusted I just go, “Yeah, Timmy’s trapped in the abandoned well,” and then I give up. We spend the night in a motel, some intern fixes the brochure the next day, and Mindy ends up making vice president.
I think I’ll have that syrup now.
