Archive for September 2011

Queasy like Sunday morning

Dog’s sick. Woke me up four times in the night to go outside.

Actually, that’s not true. He only woke me up once. I never fell back asleep after the first one.

It’s maddening, and not just because I’d rather be sleeping. You wouldn’t believe how fickle the little bastard can be about when and where he’ll take a shit.

Not there. Not there. Not there. Not there. Maybe there. Hmm. No, not there, either.

Suddenly I’m Jack Nicholson in “As Good As It Gets.” Don’t be like me, you little sumbitch. Don’t be like me!

“Do your business,” I say helpfully, because that’s what we say. And he looks up at me with the canine equivalent of an eye roll, and I imagine him replying in John Hillerman’s droll voice, “My dear man, would you hang the Mona Lisa in a frame made of popsicle sticks?”

So we move on. Him with his tongue wagging and tail bobbing. Me with my hair sticking up and eyes at half-mast. He looks happy and healthy. I’m the one who looks sick.

Which, naturally, is when the neighbor rounds the corner with his dog.

I groan a knowing groan. The neighbor’s fine. The neighbor’s dog, too. I don’t care what I look like. I just realize what this means.

Any sighting of another dog, a human, a bird, a squirrel, a lizard, a butterfly, a particularly charming stick or, apparently, the occasional ghost means that our quest for the perfect poop-site has been completely derailed. We’ll be starting over from square one. Eventually.

The neighbor nods. I mumble, “Morning.” The dogs sniff one another’s assholes.

They disappear inside, and for the next two, maybe three minutes, my partner glances repeatedly in the direction of their last known whereabouts. Just in case they’re coming back. He’s poo-shy, y’see.

Who isn’t, really?

“Do your business,” I say again helpfully. He shrugs it off.

What do I know about business, anyway.

Attention, passengers

In the event of a water landing, your seat cushion may be used as a flotation device.

In the event of a shallow water landing, your tray table may be used as a skimboard.

In the event of a school lunchroom landing, your bag of peanuts may be used in a food fight.

In the event of a Portland, Ore., landing, your seatbelt may be used as a fashion accessory.

In the event of a rich fantasy life, your blanket may be used as a superhero’s cape.

In the event a fellow passenger or member of your flight crew turns out to be a Cylon skinjob, the overhead bin may be used as a sweet-ass hiding place.

In the event your irrepressible “creative juices” and/or “zany little urges” bubble inevitably to the surface, your barf bag may be used to fashion the most adorable shabby-chic hand-puppets for your Etsy store.

In the event of a quenched thirst, your copy of SkyMall may be used to order a beverage holder shaped like an armadillo for just $19.95 plus shipping.

In the event of a routine flight and landing, your contact information may be used to relentlessly send you “deals” on upcoming flights we have severely under-booked to places nobody wants to go.