So where the heck is Mike? Heather got back from their trip to Syracuse and Ontario almost two weeks ago, and all I’ve seen of Mike is that same old stinky Bob Dylan T-shirt that he always leaves in my sleeping crate when he goes away. Like I’ve been sleeping in my crate at night anyways; Heather always lets me sleep with her when Mike’s not around. It’s almost my entitlement, like Medicare and Social Security.
Even more than sleeping arrangements, Heather’s been taking really good care of me, bringing me to work every day and playing ball with me in the morning before we go. It’s not as hot outside then. Charlie has still come over to see me on the weekends, too. At the same time, all my creative energy is being stifled without Mike around to let the pressure out. If Mike stays away much longer, I could explode, and it would not be pretty.
That might be enough to send Heather to the end of her tether. So far, she’s coping, but there are moments. The other morning she was late for a meeting and trying to hustle me into her car when she dropped my leash for an instant. That’s all the time I needed to bolt after the Bartons’ cat Ted, whom I had sensed prowling around our front walk during my increased daytime absence. While I combed the pool area in the Barton’ s back yard, Heather phoned her office to warn them she’d be late for the meeting. When she returned, she was surprised to find me lying calmly on the next neighbor’s lawn. Her surprise quickly changed to disgust and anguish, however, when she realized I was chomping down part of a recently deceased small, furry animal, and a few plaintive “leave its” and “drop its” were not having the desired effect. Somehow Heather managed to pry it out of my jaw, but not without pressing flesh with the deceased critter’s slimy remains.
With no time to go back inside the house to wash up, we climbed right into her car and sped to the office. Heather was still five minutes late to the meeting, but luckily the introductions had already been done by the time we got there, and she didn’t have to shake anyone’s hand with her mousey mitt.
Oh, well. It could have happened to anybody.
So where the heck is Mike, anyway?