Pathetic Bobonomics

Pathetic Bob came into my office a little while ago and with great sarcasm said, "Oh, excuse me, I see you're on the computer again. You must need another used door or some glass tiles, and you're scouring Craig's List to see if some poor wretch has fallen on hard times and is selling off his stuff so you can profit from his misery." That hurt, mainly because I have been scouring Craig's List for cheap stuff to help reduce the cost of all the remodeling Mrs. Em has me doing. However, this time, I was actually writing. "Actually, Bob, I'm writing," I said with a defensive tone in my voice. "In fact, I'm writing a story about you." "Hah," he scoffed, "You haven't written anything in more than a month. Your creativity is directed towards latex paint, mosaic tile, grout and power tools, and I know you can't multitask. You're either on Craig's List, Amazon, or watching porn." "I am writing," I whined. "And, I don't watch porn on the Internet. Why did you come in here? Just to screw with me? "Well, that would be way too easy. I came in to ask you about the bail out." "What bail out?" "You know, the big bail out the government is doing. Before Bush leaves office, he's bailing out all the white-collar criminals so they don't have to stay in jail before their trial. It's like when you bailed me out of jail in Laredo when me and the other dogs and Randy and Milo and their friends the flying squirrels tried to cross into Mexico illegally to distribute presents to Mexican dogs last Christmas. What I want to know is when do the trials start?" I shook my head and sighed. "First of all Bob, I did not bail you out of the Laredo jail; they made you leave because you were such a pain in the ass. I was the one who was almost thrown in jail, because you blamed the whole fiasco on me. Secondly, President Bush is not bailing criminals out of jail; he's giving them money so they can stay in business." It was Bob's turn to shake his head and sigh. "Let me see if I have this right, the government is giving money to all the businesses that are losing money?" "No Bob, it's only giving money to really big businesses that make a lot of money but still aren't making enough." "Why aren't they making enough money?" "Well, they wanted to make a lot more money, so they took risks with the money they had--much of which was the taxpayers' money--and they blew it. They made mistakes, big mistakes. Now, the guys who run those companies don't want to have to pay for their mistakes, and the government says, `Sure, fine, here's the key to the vault.'" "What about the smart companies that didn't make mistakes?" "They, my dear dog, are screwed. Hey, Bob, where are you going?" "I'm going to write a charter for my new business." "And that is...?" "I thing the First National Bank of Bob has a nice ring to it."

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Ed's Duck

There is a saying, “no good deed goes unpunished,” and I’m beginning to believe it might be true.

Last week, I was in a Walgreen’s drug store having some prescriptions filled. As I waited for my drug dealer to count out pills and put them in plastic containers, I walked around the store just to pass the time. Occasionally, Walgreen’s—whose motto is “Buy one for the price of two”—will have some merchandise marked down to prices that would actually be considered sale prices in the real world, and I found some of that merchandise in the pet section. There was a whole bin full of stuffed toys—the kind my dogs like to eviscerate—marked down to one or two dollars. The dogs that live with me have a toy box overstuffed with plush and rubber toys, but I recently noticed many of them had been gutted and only the hides remained, so I decided to refill their coffer.

I plucked out about 20 dollars worth of stuffed cats, footballs, squirrels, several rubber chickens, and one duck. Most of the toys had that little plastic squeaky thing buried inside them that is supposed to delight dogs when they chomp on the midsection, however, the duck had an electronic quack track. If the duck is bitten just right, it will quack for about 15 seconds. The tinny, electrified quack, quack, quack amused me, and I felt it would amuse the dogs.

I picked up my drugs, paid my supplier, and carried the drugs and toys out in a large sack. When I walked into the house, it was canine Christmas; Em Claus began dispensing toys amongst the pack, and great frivolity ensued. Although there was a bit of squabbling—Pathetic Bob ripped the green frog out of Zipper’s mouth, and Paco whined until Sophie gave him the yellow and blue snake—everything soon settled down. Everyone had a present with plenty more left over. The duck lay in the corner by the couch unnoticed, until Lily pounced on it. The force of her body landing on the duck’s midsection triggered a burst of quacking that took the dogs by surprise. They all froze. Then, all of them except Ed the basset hound ran away.

Of all the dogs that live here, Ed is undoubtedly the most goofy, fun-loving member of the pack, and when he heard the quacking, he went over to check out the duck…and fell in love. He bit it, it quacked at him, and he laughed. He did his basset dance, picked up the duck and discovered with just the right amount of pressure from his jaws, he could make the duck talk to him. He was in Ed nirvana. I was highly amused.

It is now a week later, and I am not amused anymore. Ed’s duck is driving me insane. He must have it at night when he sleeps with us on the bed; quack, quack, quack at two in the morning kills brain cells. I tried hiding it, but his whining was worse than the quacking. When I’m in my office trying to write, Ed and his duck are in there with me. Quacking does not inspire literary greatness. I took the battery out of Ed’s duck and rendered it mute, but Ed fell into a deep depression, and I simply could not bear to see him so sad.

Ed’s duck has new batteries installed in it, and whenever I try to sleep or write, I pour hot wax in my ear.

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Pathetic Bob's Olympic Review

Pathetic Bob slept in late this morning. When he finally came into the breakfast room, I said, “Morning Bob. You were sure burning daylight. Did you stay up and watch more of the Olympics last night?”

Before answering, he walked over and lapped up some water from his bowl and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. Refreshed, he turned to me and said, “Yeah, I watched the women’s gymnastics, and I gotta say Em, it’s the stupidest sport this side of synchronized swimming and ice skating.”

“That’s pretty harsh Bob. I mean those women are well-trained athletes; what’s so stupid about the showcasing their skills?”

“Well first of all jock-strap breath, it’s supposed to be ‘women’s gymnastics,” but most of the competitors were nine-year-old girls in training bras. There seems to be some kind of unwritten law that if you have boobs you can’t compete. That’s why the United States lost.”

“What? What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’ll tell you what I’m talking about; the U.S. was doing ok until the only ‘woman’ on the team tried to jump up on a wooden beam. She had big boobs Em; they unbalanced her, and she crashed. Then, a few minutes later, she was lost her balance again when she was somersaulting on the floor. The team should have gone with that seven-year-old kid from Cleveland. I heard the Chinese steal babies from their mother’s wombs and begin training them when they’re a week old. They put them in the Olympics by the time they’re six.”

“I have to admit Bob, the Chinese girls did look a little young, but you can’t say that women’s gymnastics is stupid because of boob size.”

“I think I just did. Here’s two other stupid things: sparkly make-up and glittery costumes.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Any sport where competitors where sparkly make-up or a costume that has sequins or glitter on it is not a sport. It is theater, or a circus performance, not a sport. And, unless you are a horse, no prancing in sports. Look at the difference between men and women’s gymnastics. Men don’t wear sparkly make-up or prance and wave their arms around like the girls do. They don’t even have music. If music is involved, it’s not sports; it’s performance art.”

“Ok Bob, whatever. So, what’s your viewing schedule today?”

“The chainsaw fighting finals are at noon—Canadia is heavily favored. At 2:00 I’m going to watch women’s bear wrestling. Now there’s a sport.”

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Pathetic Bob's English Lessons

Pathetic Bob wandered into my office this morning, flopped down on the tile floor, and said, “You know Mike, I’ve been bitching about the economy lately, but I’ve been doing some research, and I put things in a little perspective.”

“Yeah,” I said, “and just what did you perspect?”

“Well,” he began in a somber tone, “although things are getting pretty tough here, I don’t think it will ever get as bad as in Eeng Land.”

“Really? I like England, and I thought they were doing okay over there.”

“There you go thinking again, and you though wrong. Did you know the average person has to pay about $17 million to buy a house?”

“Wow,” I exclaimed, “that’s about 32 million pounds.”

“Yeah,” said Bob, “those houses weigh a lot over there. Also, did you know their mathematics is based on the Dewey decimal system? I mean it’s no wonder their economy is screwed up; who ever heard of doing math with by a library coding system? And another thing, Eeng-Land’s money is based on sterling silver. You can actually buy goods and services with knives, forks, and spoons.”

I honestly don’t know where he comes up with this stuff. I shook my head in bewilderment and asked, “Bob, where do you come up with this stuff?”

“Internet blogs,” he answered. “You can find out anything on blogs.”

“What else did you find out about England?”

“They have too many people named Oliver, Nigel, and Ian. They have urchins in the cities, not just the sea. They have class, both upper and lower. When they go to the theater, they shake spears at actors. They have a King whose name is Big Ben. They still watch Telly even though he died shortly after Kojak was canceled. There was a beetle infestation in the ‘60s that caused young women to wear very short skirts. I have to tell you Mike, that country has some really weird history”

I shook my head again in amazement. “Bob, I don’t think you’ve really been focusing on what you’ve been reading. You’ve just spouted a bunch of half-truths and distortions about a great country. I’ve been to England, and I loved it; I think you’d love it to if you went.”

“Well, why don’t you take me?”

“I can’t afford it right now. The exchange rate is terrible. The American economy is much worse than the British economy.”

Bob thought for a moment. “What if I change my name to Oliver; can we get a discount?”

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Rain Dogs

The sky over San Antonio is as gray as Gizmo’s muzzle today, and it is dumping its excess moisture on thirsty lawns. I’ve been at the computer most of the day, when I haven’t been mopping up dog urine. Most members of my pack dislike peeing in the rain. In fact, most of them believe water—unless it is in a bowl—is something to be avoided at all costs.

As the rain picked up velocity and the thunder ricocheted off the roof tops, I noticed Sophie, Gizmo, Zipper, Judy and Beyonce (the Yorkie that is staying with us for the week) laying on my office floor with their heads stuck out the sliding-glass door. It appeared they were in deep contemplation. Pathetic Bob, Lily, and Paco were not so sanguine about the weather; they huddled close together underneath my desk making out their last wills and testaments.

“Why don’t you guys go out and play in the rain?” I asked. Silence was the answer I received.

I then decided to try an experiment. I got up and went to the kitchen, followed by eight canines that truly believe every time I go into the kitchen, food magically falls out of my pants. However, I didn’t stop in the kitchen; I passed through it to the laundry room and opened the door to the garage. After pushing the button on the garage-door opener, the large, metal door began to roll up, revealing a semi-river flowing down the street in front of my house. The downpour was ferocious.

Opening the door connecting the laundry room to the garage wider, I said, “Do you guys want to go outside?”

This time, a stampede of fur and tails flew by me towards the freedom of the neighborhood. The sprint for the outside lasted only a second as the dogs slammed on the brakes just as they passed the edge of the eave on the roof. Their course was reversed, and dashed back to dry ground. “Hey, it’s raining out there,” said Bob.

“Duh,” said I.

I sat on the stoop in the garage for a while as the dogs wandered around smelling my tools and peeing on five-gallon buckets of paint. Then, I noticed Sophie tentatively step out of the garage and on to the lawn. Immediately she was soaked, but the lure of my neighbors’ yards proved to enticing for her to worry about her sogginess and she bolted. Lily followed suit, then Pathetic Bob, and finally Judy trotted out in the rain. Zipper, Gizmo, Paco and the Yorkie watched the others go and shook their heads. They remained within the comfort of the garage.

A few minutes later, Lily returned, followed by Sophie and Judy. Pathetic Bob was nowhere in sight. I got a towel to dry off the three dogs, sure that Bob would return shortly. He didn’t. I called his name several times, but he chose to ignore me. I sure wasn’t going to chase him down in the rain. I let the other dogs back in the house, but I remained in the garage to wait out Bob’s return. A few minutes later, an intense boom of thunder crashed overhead. I looked down the street and spotted a miniature Greyhound hauling ass up the road at hyper-speed. As he skidded to a stop inside the garage, Bob’s eyes were wide and he was quivering like a piano wire. “Holy crap, what was that”” he asked.

“That, Bob, was the result of you leaving the yard. I installed a device in your collar that will raise the ire of Thor, the god of thunder, every time you go more than a hundred feet away from the house.”

I closed the garage door, and as we went back into the house, Bob said, “Take that damn thing out of my collar.”

“No,” I said.

“Well, take my collar off then.”

“I’m going to do that right now; you need a bath.”

“Uh-uh. No way. You know I hate water.

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The Declaration of Pathetic Bob

This morning, after vacuuming and mopping in preparation for the horde known as “My Wife's Family” descending upon our house and swimming pool, my wife said I could take a break, so I came into my office to make my daily rounds on the Internet. My executive dog, Pathetic Bob, followed me.

“Hey Mike,” he said once the door was closed, “What’s with all this July 4th hoopla? Why do Americans get so worked up and eat hot dogs and hamburgers and blow stuff up on this day?”

“It’s Independence Day Bob,” I answered. “It’s the day we celebrate our independence.”

“Independence from what?

“Independence from the yoke of tyranny that was placed upon us by King George of England. Way back in 1776, Americans got tired of being yoked so Thomas Jefferson wrote a document called the Declaration of Independence, and the American politicians signed it. Basically it said, ‘We’re mad as hell, and we’re not gonna take it anymore.’”

“So, that’s where Paddy Chayefsky got that line,” mused Bob “Is that when Americans started drinking coffee?”

“Excuse me?”

“Well,” said Bob, “I heard people were upset because the English were making the Americans buy English tea and they were putting a very hefty tax on it. With tea around $5 a spoonful and lemons $12 each, didn’t all the Americans—well, except the real Americans, you know, the Native Americans—go to Boston and dump on the tea?”

“No Bob, I think you’re a little mixed up. I’m not sure what tea cost back then, but it was more than the people wanted to pay, so some people in Boston threw all the tea from English merchant ships into Boston harbor. They dumped in the ocean, they didn’t dump on the tea.”

“Oh, I see. Ok, when did we develop our dependence on coffee, and did we write a document about it?”

“Bob, I think you’re getting a little off track.”

“What about oil,” Bob went on. “How come we don’t celebrate our dependence on oil? And entertainment, what about that?” And, don’t forget fast-food restaurants and computers and toaster ovens and tanning salons and those pills that make men get an erection? It seems to me Mike, you are much more dependent on all kinds of crap now than people were in 1776. And Jesus Mike, what about taxes? If the people were upset about paying taxes a couple hundred years ago, just think how angry they’d be today.”

“Well, you do have a point Bob,” I agreed. “But back then, the people didn’t have hot dogs and hamburgers and really cool fireworks.”

“Hey, now you’re talking. Let’s go eat.”

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Broken Fish

Dr. Hazel Capon was deeply concerned. The funding for project “Broken Fish” was running out, and without significant results in the next four months, it was unlikely the Flugler Foundation would continue its support of her work.

Dr. Capon was the only ichthyo-orthopod in the country specializing in rib injuries of salt-water fish. Her previous work with crustacean amputees led to the development of “Capon’s Leg,” a salt-powered prosthesis that allowed amputee crabs to sidle normally, had vaulted her to fame in the marine biology surgical world and opened the funding wallets for new research. The people at Flugler poured millions into the Broken Fish project, hoping to be associated with new, cutting-edge surgical techniques for repairing shattered fish bones. But now, two years later, the foundation trustees were rethinking their position; without the slightest hint of a breakthrough from Capon’s work, it was considering moving its funds to a group that was doing groundbreaking work on alleviating pre-menstrual stress in bison. If that happen, Hazel’s once-proud standing in the fish field would suffer considerably.

Dr. Hazel Capon faced a dilemma, a moral dilemma. She knew exactly what the problem was that was hindering her research, she knew it two months after project Broken Fish began, and she knew how to solve it. By solving it, however, she would have to cross a line she wasn’t sure she could cross.

The problem, Hazel learned early on, was that fish seldom received rib injuries. Occasionally, a high-powered speedboat piloted by a drunken fat guy from Minnesota would slam into a carp and snap a rib, but usually resulted in the quick demise of the fish. Other than that, fish just didn’t seem to break ribs…unless…unless you punched them. That was Hazel’s problem; should she start beating up fish and get more money, or admit she screwed up and slink off to obscurity? To make matters worse, Dr. Hazel Capon was born under the sign of Pisces.

Unwilling to become an ichthyo-terrorist, Dr. Capon told the Flugler Foundation her research was proving to be “going nowhere” and closed down the Broken Fish project. She has since changed her specialty to gastropod psychiatry.

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Harley Chalmers Interviews a Birdhouse

A friend of a friend’s son is attending Our Lady of the Tortilla University where he is majoring in “Communications.” His name is Harley Chalmers, and he wants to be a “television news personality.” “Communications” is the post-sanity major that has replaced “journalism” at most colleges and universities in this country, and it is a prerequisite for anyone desiring to break into the news…uh…infotainment business.
Since I worked the dark side of the news business for eight years as a television “news” producer, my friend’s friend asked my friend to ask me if I would critique Harley’s audition. Being the wonderful human mammal that I am, I agreed.

I slipped the tape into my VCR—it came with my CD player—and when the picture burst on the TV screen, Harley was seated in an Adirondack deck chair next to a dilapidated, hanging, two-story, wooden birdhouse. He was decked out in a white shirt, blue blazer, red tie, and grey pants. His light-brown hair was neatly coiffed into a hair helmet, and he had a big smile that revealed a mouthful of fluorescent teeth. He began.

“I’m here today in Sylvia Potchanu’s backyard to talk to this birdhouse,” he said, gesturing with his head toward the sorry looking structure. “Birdhouses are very common in North America, but ones made of wood are becoming a rare sight because of the popularity of less expensive, plastic models. This one has been in Sylvia’s yard for years, and I bet it has some stories to tell.” Pointing a fuzzy-covered microphone towards the birdhouse, Harley turned his head and asked. “So, you are a birdhouse, right?”

The birdhouse looked at Harley like the wanna-be TV personality was a moron (which, by the way, is a particularly favorable quality for TV personalities).

Harley didn’t let the birdhouse’s silence deter him, and he forged ahead. “I was wondering, before you took up birdhousing, what kind of work were you in?”

The little house gave an inaudible sigh and answered, “I was part of a tree.”

“That’s awesome,” beamed Harley, “Why did you decide to leave the tree and become a shelter for birds?”

“I didn’t ‘decide’ to become a birdhouse. The tree was murdered by a chainsaw-wielding psycho and butchered into boards to make birdhouses. It’s rather ironic because as a tree, we sheltered more birds than all the birdhouses built from us?”

“I’m sorry,” Harley chided, “we’re not allowed to use words like ‘ironic’ on television.” The budding TV reporter moved on. “So tell me, what do you think of the new, plastic birdhouses?”

“I think it is better than making them out of trees.”

“Ok. Uh…a final question. If you could have any other job, what would it be?”
The birdhouse quickly snapped, “I’d be a tree.”

The interview over, Harley did his on-camera summation, “Well there you have it folks, a wooden birdhouse in the age of plastics, totally cool or what? Now, back to Glen in the studio.”

I sent the tape back to my friend with this note attached: “Tell your friend that Harley is going to be a star.”

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Ed Toad Watches Death at Work

Ed Toad witnessed the assassination. The moist heat of the day was relentless, and Ed sought relief in the cool tropical garden, camouflaged by lush elephant ears and giant ferns. He was dozing beneath the green glow of the plant canopy when a housefly landed on his forehead. It was a small irritant but enough to cause him to lift his drowsy eyelids and brush the pest away.

As Ed watched the fly retreat, his peripheral vision picked up movement over by the pool. A turn of his head and a series of blinks drove the drowsiness from his eyes, and he spotted the victim-to-be. The victim seemed edgy; he would walk a few paces and then stop, turning his head back and forth, as though he was checking to see if he was being followed. Ed brushed a palm frond to the side and scanned the area. He could see no one else but the victim in the vicinity. His gaze returned to the doomed soul.

Ed thought about making a noise, just to let the victim know he was there, however he decided it might prove to startling so he remained silent. As Ed watched the starts and stops of the victim, he speculated on the reason for the obvious nervousness. Perhaps the victim is a spy, thought Ed, and he’s here to meet his contact. He also considered there may be a romantic tryst about to take place, and the victim was anxious about a jealous husband. All sorts of scenarios played out in Ed’s head.

As Ed constructed possible scenarios, the assassin waited, frozen in position and cocked with a hair trigger. Patience, speed, and mercilessness were his strengths, and he used them often. If you were to ask him he would say he didn’t particularly like killing, but he might add he didn’t particularly not like it either. It was his nature, and he didn’t question it.

The assassin watched the victim’s cautious movements, planning the timing of his strike. It’s a dangerous world, thought the assassin, but no matter how cautious you are if I want you dead, you will soon be cold meat.

A sweet, soft wind rolled through the garden. The victim paused, sniffing the damp air. Ed Toad watched and conjured up another possible story to account for the victim’s being there in the first place. As the wind rustled the vegetation, the assassin struck with speed and savagery. Death was almost instantaneous. The assassin carried the body away, perhaps as proof of the deed or to hide the evidence.

Ed looked on, neither surprised nor frightened; he had seen it before. As calm and quiet returned to the garden, Ed emerged from his cover and walked over to the scene of the crime. A damp red spot littered with small, green bits and pink viscera were all that remained. Ed shook his head. “Someone really ought to stop that cat before he kills all the lizards in the garden,” he said to himself, and then hopped back into the plants.

(c) 2008

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Ronny Vladso Learns the World Sucks for Leopards

After months of badgering, Leona Vladso finally gave in to her six-year-old son’s demands. “Fine Ronny, I’ll tell you about your father, but I warn you, it’s not a pretty story.”

Ronny Vladso knew his father was dead, however, he did not know the details of his death or his life. Every time he asked about his old man, he mother would only say, “He’s entertaining God.”

As Ronny sat in a rigid, hardwood, kitchen chair, Leona paced in front of him. “I only knew your dad a short while before he died,” Leona began. “I met Bosco—that was your father's name, Bosco Peppitone—at the corner of Desmond Avenue and 126th Street. I had just finished my laundry and was carrying it back to my apartment. As I neared the corner, I heard this clicking noise…click, click, click. It was semi-rhythmic, and I could tell the sound was a product of wood being struck. Turning the corner on to Desmond, I collided with Bosco. My laundry and your father took a tumble on the sidewalk.”

Ronny’s eyes were wide as he listened to his mother’s account. “What happened then?”

“I asked him if he was hurt, and he said ‘no,’ and then helped me gather my clothes. As I watched him picking up my panties, I noticed for the first time how handsome he was, just like you. I also noticed he was wearing a plaid mini-skirt, high-top sneakers, and a t-shirt from a ZZ Top concert. I gotta tell you Ronny, that was weird, but the really weird thing was the hair on his legs. It was about three inches long. Below his skirt, he looked like a mountain gorilla.”

Ronny’s mouth fell open. “Was he a monster?”

“No honey, in fact he was quite sweet. You might think that someone with gorilla legs would be scary, but I thought his hairy legs were beautiful. He spent a lot of time grooming his legs. He used expensive shampoos and conditioners, and he brushed them every evening.”

“Why was he dressed so silly?” asked Ronny.

“That’s what I wanted to know. I mean he looked like a waiter at a gay biker restaurant.”

“What’s a gay biker?

“Never mind. Anyway, I asked him about his attire, and he told me he was a busker. I had no idea what a busker was, and then he showed me his clanking sticks, began banging them together and starting doing a slow soft shoe. He told me a busker was a professional street performer; a person who plays music or performs some kind of act for tips.”

“Dad was in show business?” asked Ronny.

“Sort of,” said Leona. “So, Bosco asked me out for coffee, and we really hit it off. Next thing I know, Bosco and me had moved in together, and I was pregnant with you.”

“Did you let the hair grow out on your legs?”

“What?”

“Now that you and Bosco…I mean dad…were married, did you grow gorilla legs too?”

“Uh…no honey, I didn’t.” Leona didn’t want to tell the boy she and Bosco never married.

“Ok. So mom, how did Bosco die?”

Leona really didn’t want to get into Bosco’s death, but she knew she would have to deal with it eventually, why not now? “Honey, your daddy was a good man, but he wasn’t a great busker. Between his busking and my job at Penguin-on-a-Stick, we could barely keep food on the table. Bosco was determined to make it as a busker, and he was also determined to provide a good life for us, so he decided to relocate his busking from the corner of Desmond and 125th to Wall Street, just south of the stock exchange. He felt those mega-rich stock traders would surely be a higher-paying audience for his talent.”

Ronny got a quizzical look on his face. “What’s a stock trader?”

Leona’s face grew somber. “It’s just another word for ‘asshole.’ Now listen up, I’m only gonna talk about this once, so pay attention. With the bills piling up at home, Bosco was feeling pressure to increase his business so he started to incorporate new bits into his act. Banging sticks together and doing a soft shoe just wasn’t enough for the jaded stockbrokers. Your daddy learned to yodel and juggle cats. He slid garden snakes up his nose and out his mouth. But what really did Bosco in was his decision to become a stick-banging mime.”

The boy appeared confused. “What’s wrong with being a mime?”

Leona sighed. “You are too young to understand Ronny, but people hate mimes, and stockbrokers hate mimes worse than they hate poor people. After the close of trading on a Wednesday, a month after Bosco’s relocation, he painted his face white and started pretending he was banging sticks together. A large group of stockbrokers came by on their way to their favorite bar, and Bosco jumped in front of them and really started working is stick-banging pantomime. At first, the brokers tried to ignore him, but your dad was relentless. Finally, one of the men had enough and told Bosco to get out of the way. Your dad was a stubborn man, and he was determined to mime his ass off. That was unfortunate. According to witnesses, briefcases began flying and wing-tip shoes lashed out at Bosco. When the group of irate stockbrokers fled, Bosco lay dying on the sidewalk. Before an ambulance could arrive, a woman in a faux leopard-skin coat came by. She picked up Bosco’s real sticks and crushed his skull with them. I’m sorry you had to hear about this Ronny, but you wanted to know. The world can be a cruel place.”

The boy hung his head…thinking. Leona hoped the story hadn’t traumatized her son. Finally, Ronny looked at his mom. “You know mom, the world really is fucked up. Why would someone kill a faux leopard just to make a coat?

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Shamed By My Eating Utensils

Several weeks ago, I sat down at the dining room table to a meal consisting of corn on the cob, small red potatoes, and a nicely marbled rib-eye steak. After slathering I-Can’t-Believe-It’s-Not-Butter on the corn, I picked up my fork in my left hand and my serrated steak knife in my right. I plunged the tines of the fork into the steak, and as I was about to draw the knife across the end of the meat, a flash of light from the overhead fixture glinted off the knife and blinded me momentarily. In that brief moment of blindness, I heard, “Are you sure you want to do this?” The voice was clear, acute, and clearly male.

I rubbed my eyes and looked around the room. There was no one else present but me. “Hello,” I said. “Anyone here?”

“Yeah, I’m down here,” the voice answered. It came from the table.

I looked down and thought for a second that the meat was talking to me. I poked it with my fork; it was definitely dead. “Over here,” the sharp voice called from my right. I slowly moved my eyes to the right and noticed the knife in my hand was quivering. The knife spoke. “Yeah, it’s me, your knife. I’m sorry to interrupt your supper, but I think you might want to reconsider eating this meat.”

“Yeah, me too,” chimed in my fork. Its voice was unmistakably feminine.

“Did I take my medication this morning,” I wondered aloud. I then remembered downing them with my morning coffee. I decided it would probably be fine to join this discussion so I asked, “Why shouldn’t I eat this steak? It’s dead, it’s cooked, and I really love the taste of a good steak.”

“Well for starters,” lectured my knife, “your cholesterol is a little high. Red meat—actually any kind of meat—can raise your bad cholesterol. You seem to have forgotten your doctor said she was going to put you on some meds if you didn’t lower your cholesterol. Yet, here you are, about to stuff your face with dead cow. You're pathetic.”

“No I’m not; my dog is path….”

“Give it a rest,” cried my fork. “Speaking of dogs, would you eat one of your dogs or cats? Would you blow a hole in their head with a compressed air gun and make spaghetti and Italian greyhound meatballs?”

“That’s sick.”

“Would you eat a cat burger?”

“Alright, you can stop it right now.”

“The point is,” said my knife, “you wouldn’t eat those animals because you know them and know they are self aware, possess some intelligence, and they’re cute. Lambs are cute, cows are cute, yet you eat them.”

“Yeah, but….”

“Butt head.”

“So, are you telling me I should become a vegetarian?”

“Duh. Look, maintaining a vegetarian lifestyle is better for your health. You won’t be contributing to the needless slaughter of millions of your fellow creatures. There are lots of other reasons, including economic ones, environmental ones and others, but we’ll go into those later. Right now, put me down, walk away, and go eat some tofu.”

“You’re not the boss of me,” I whined. “Listen, I’ll give your argument consideration, but I’ve already got this fine piece of meat in front of me, and I’d hate to see it go to waste.”

“If you try to cut into that steak, I’m going to stab you,” my knife warned. By this time, my dogs had wandered in. Suddenly, my knife began rapidly cutting bits of steak while my fork tossed them to the dogs. In no time, my meal had disappeared.

Since that day, I’ve been working my way into a vegetarian diet. I do cheat. When I feed the dogs, I steal a spoonful of Natural Balance canned food for myself. It tastes like chicken.

© 2008

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A Theory From My Button

Today, I dressed in cargo shorts, flip-flop sandals, and a pullover, short-sleeved, white shirt with a collar. The shirt did not have a designer emblem on its front or back; I generally hate giving large companies advertising space for free. There were three buttons on the shirt, all of them near the neck. I never wear shirts that have been buttoned all the way up; it is much too restrictive for me. Neither do I wear shirts unbuttoned below the second button; that seems to be a sign of a man who is trying to hard. The two-out-of-three button arrangement is the style I prefer on sports shirts.

Shortly after I finished buttoning the two lower buttons, the middle one spoke to me. “What’s up with all these twigs and leaves on the floor,” it asked.

“The Cheegle brings them in,” I answered.

“You know,” my button went on, “I don’t get out of the closet that often, but it seems to me that little dog is acting like a bird that is gathering material for a nest.”

I was a little surprised my button knew about bird nesting; it had never mentioned the subject before. “I think you’re right,” I said, “and I think that is very perceptive of you.”

“I have a theory,” said the button.

“Yeah, what’s your theory?”

“Well,” said the button with great authority, “by observing all the dogs that live with you, I think a case can be made that dogs evolved from dinosaurs. All I have is empirical evidence, but it seems to me to be a plausible theory.”

“To be honest,” I told the button, “I believe your theory is rather daft. I think the prevailing scientific belief is that dogs evolved from wolves.”

“That’s true,” my button said, “as far as it goes. But, you need to go back further than wolves. Where did wolves come from?”

“Wolverines?”

“Very funny. Wolves came from dinosaurs who came from birds, ergo, your dogs are birds.”

“Get out of here. The six dogs that live at this house came from a shelter.”

“You’re not taking this seriously, are you?”

“Not very. No offense, but you are only a button after all.”

“I understand. Uh, you might want to take a look at the dog bed in the corner. I think the Cheegle laid an egg.”

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The Story Bridge

(In this 2,700-word story, I've tried to offer an updated take on the "magic shop" type of story.)

After typing “creative writing groups” in the Google search box, Susan Plume sat back in her leather office chair and awaited as the magical algorithms cast their cyber nets, hauled the bounty to her iMac, and displayed them on the 20-inch monitor. Susan blinked, and within the nanosecond her eyes were closed, more than 5 million possible answers to her search queued in the search engine.

Susan Plume had stories to tell. At 35, and after working seven years as a stockbroker, she was starting to feel her true calling was slipping past her. She believed she was destined to write, to be an author, a storyteller. In college, Susan had done well in her creative writing courses, but business was her major, and after graduation, the lure of big money over road her creative dreams. But dreams have a way of resurfacing as years pass, and like a biological clock; Susan’s need to create life out of words had resurfaced like a long-dormant seed. Now, she felt she needed support, encouragement, and nurturing to coax out and polish her tales. She could have enrolled in a writing class at the local college, but preferred to seek help online, anonymously, with veterans and tyros alike.

At first, five million possibilities seemed daunting to Susan. How could she possibly choose a group that was right for her? With so many sites available, some were undoubtedly scams, set up to bleed dreams dry. Susan had done well in her business, making herself and her clients rich. Selling and trading stocks, bonds, and commodities required good research, but the crux of the business was intuition, you put your money down and let the wheel spin. Susan allowed her intuition take over, and on the fifth page of the Google search, an entry titled “The Story Bridge” jumped out at her and wrapped its arms around her head. “We help make your stories come to life,” promised the short description following the title. Susan clicked on the link and was taken to a web page featuring a dark blue background, a graphic keyboard, and an invitation to fill out a form to be considered for membership. The form was simple, aside from basic information such as name, e-mail address, and experience, it asked for a sample story and an answer to the question, “Why do you want to be a writer?”

Susan decided to go ahead with the process. She filled in the basic information, and then pasted in a short story she had written in college about a swimming pool; it was titled “The Swimming Pool.” Before she answered the “why do you want to be a writer,” question, Susan thought for few minutes then wrote, “So I can create new worlds.”

After clicking on the “send” button, a new screen appeared which bore the message: “Thank you for submitting your application to The Story Bridge. Please give us a few days to process your request for membership.”

During the course of the next few days, Susan Plume checked her e-mail more frequently than normal, hoping to hear something from the writing website. In high school and college and in her career, Susan had been popular, athletic, and self-confident, but since sending off her application, she had more empathy for those kids in school who were the last few hoping to be chosen when sides were picked for games and sports. Finally, on Thursday at 3:17 p.m., Susan’s computer notified her she had received a message from The Story Bridge. She clicked on the e-mail and read:

Dear Susan,
Your application has been accepted. Welcome to The Story Bridge. Although your story, “The Swimming Pool,” contained a number of punctuation errors, we thought it was interesting and compelling. We feel you could also use some work on your descriptive language.
The next step in the process for full membership is for you to submit an original story--no more than 5,000 words--to us by Monday afternoon. This will give you four days to write your story. Once your story is posted, our members will review and critique it within two days. Good luck in creating your “new world.”

Sincerely,
H.P.

Susan did not expect a second audition and felt a bit of ire rising within her. It did not last long. She decided this development was a good thing; after all if the group was this picky about its membership, it was probably a place where she would learn to hone her chops. Before she left her office for the day, Susan told her boss she was taking Friday and Monday off.

New worlds moved through Susan’s head the rest of the afternoon, making it hard for her to concentrate on her work. Her mind was searching for stories, not stock deals. That evening, in her apartment, she sketched out plots and scenarios and characters, discarding some, retaining others until she felt she had aligned the right sequence of literary DNA that would help her create a formidable tale by which her critics would judge her. After a glass of Pinot Grigio, Susan fell asleep and let the chemistry of creation bubble away in her mind.

Friday morning, fortified with yogurt, toast, and strong Columbian coffee, Susan Plume pulled words out of her head and deposited them on the keyboard of her iMac. With a clear picture of the finished product in her head and the tools of a writer’s trade on her desk, Susan spent the next two days crafting her story. The magic of writing engulfed her. The art of giving an idea life took hold, and she pursued it doggedly.

By late Sunday afternoon, Susan Plume had given birth to a 4,700-word story. It has all its limbs and fingers and toes, and it seemed healthy. It would, however, need to be cleaned. Susan spent Sunday night and Monday morning scrubbing her story, washing away unnecessary bits and pieces and dressing it in the right punctuation.

At 12:27 p.m. on Monday, Susan typed “The Crash” at the top of the first page of her story, and then sent it off to The Story Bridge. Immediately after she hit the “send” key, she felt an overwhelming sense of accomplishment and confidence. Susan ordered in Chinese food to celebrate, but by the time it arrived, her confidence level had dropped dramatically. It irritated her that she wanted to please a group of people she didn’t know; they could be a group of high-school students after all, or, the group might not be a group at all, just some weirdo with the initials H.P. But the fact remained, she did want to be accepted into the group; she wanted to be—even at a distance—among people who bled words.

Susan puttered about her apartment the rest of the afternoon tidying up and doing laundry, anything to keep her from thinking about the story and whether it would be accepted. A little past 7:00 that evening, after a light meal and a long bath, Susan decided to catch up on some correspondence and returned to her computer. Upon opening her mailbox, she began scanning her inbox. The third entry, just below an offer of penis enlargement and above a notice that she had won the Swedish lottery, she saw the words, “The Story Bridge.” This was highly unexpected; the last e-mail from H.G. stated it would take two days for the group to read and critique her story. She was sure this was not a good sign. Click.

Dear Susan,
Thank you for submitting your story, “The Crash.” Although we normally take a few days to assess submissions for full membership, we found your story to be exceptional and would be honored to have you as a member.
In less than 5,000 words, you’ve managed to create a compelling magical-realism thriller, complete with finely drawn characters. Using a timely subject such as stock market manipulation to explore the depths of evil even the most altruistic of us can descend was brilliant.
Congratulations for a job well done. We are going to publish “The Crash” tomorrow. Welcome to the writer’s world.

Best of luck,
H.G.

Susan Plume was stunned. She was going to be published. She was a real author. Of course, she thought, there was no mention of pay, but that doesn’t matter for now. What mattered to her was people who knew good writing had accepted her, and now she was considered by them to be a peer. “Brilliant” was the word H.G. had used to describe her story. It was then that Susan knew in her heart it would not be long before she would make the transition from stockbroker to fulltime author.

Buoyed by her success, Susan spent the remainder of the evening e-mailing friends and family about the news of story being published. She attached a copy of “The Crash” to every e-mail she sent. By the time midnight rolled around, Susan had written and sent 47 e-mails and drank a bottle of Yellowtail merlot. She undressed and floated beneath the sheets on her bed, soon drifting off to dream of book tours.

At 10:02 Tuesday morning, Susan Plume opened her left eye and swiveled it towards the nightstand next to her bed. She blinked. She blinked again. A third blink wiped away enough overnight eye slime for her to see the digital readout on the nightstand clock. “Damn,” she yelled, “I’m late for work.”

Speed dressing and rapid makeup application were not Susan’s strong points, but after a quick shower, she completed both tasks as rapidly as possible. Grabbing her briefcase, she left her 12th floor apartment, waited briefly for the elevator to arrive, and made it out of the building and into a taxi. By the time she reached the offices of Bricklin & Sutton, the brokerage for which she worked, it was a few minutes shy of 11:00. As Susan rushed past the reception area of the firm, Tina, the receptionist, called out, “Anna, there are two policemen waiting in your office. They’ve been there for a while.”

“Anna? Who is Anna?” thought Susan as she stopped by the coffee machine long enough to fill a Styrofoam cup with late-morning java dregs. When she opened her office door, Susan stopped short. There were two men sitting inside. One of them, a slender, redhead with hollow cheeks and a cheap suit was sitting at her desk scrolling through her computer files. The other man, dark, bulky and seemingly asleep was in one of the chairs in front of her desk. At the sound of her entrance, the redhead looked up.

“What, what the hell is going on here?” demanded Susan. “There are confidential files on that computer. Who are you people?”

The redhead looked at her for a moment. “I’m Agent Bellflower, and that’s my partner, Agent Cano. We’re from the Treasury Department. Have a seat next to my partner Miss Caffington. We need to ask you a few questions.”

Puzzlement flooded Susan’s face. “Please, Anna,” said Bellflower, “this is quite serious. Have a seat.”

“I think you have the wrong person,” Susan tried to explain. “I’m not Anna Caffington. I’m Susan Plume. This is my office. I don’t know any Anna Caffington.” As Susan spoke those words, something at the back of her mind began to itch. “It’s the wine,” she thought, remembering last night’s celebratory bottle of merlot. God, I must have the worst hangover imaginable; I’m hearing things.”

“Save the B.S. Anna,” said Agent Cano, who still appeared to be sleeping. “We know who you are. Now sit down.”

“You guys have made a hell of a mistake, or someone has put you up to this, but I am not this Anna person. Now this is my office, and I’ve got work to do, so please leave.”

“What does it say on your office door, Anna?”

The door was still open, and Susan turned her head to look. About five feet from the floor, in the middle of the door, was a brass plate that read, “Anna Caffington, Stockbroker.” Susan’s mouth dropped open, and the itching got worse.

Confused, Susan closed the door and sat next to Agent Cano. It was Agent Bellflower who delivered the next bit of news. “We know who you are Anna. In fact, we know all about you. For instance, we know you’ve been having an affair with your boss, Jeremy Steiner.”

Susan started to tell them her boss’s name was Roger Twain, not Jeremy Steiner, and Roger was gay. However, the name Jeremy Steiner sounded familiar, so she waited to hear what was coming next.

Agent Bellflower casually leaned back in Susan’s leather chair. “We also know Steiner conspired with three sub-prime lenders, an administration official, and two of the most powerful banks in the country to manipulate the stock market and cause financial devastation for millions of people. We know for a fact that Steiner illegally profited to the tune of 4 billion dollars.”

All this information was coming too fast. In her hung over condition and with no morning coffee, Susan was having difficulty processing all of it. What was worse, some of it rang true.

“One other thing we know is Jeremy Steiner is dead. He was shot through his right eye with a small caliber weapon in his bedroom, sometime late Saturday night or early Sunday morning. Interestingly enough, his wife was out of town and has a solid alibi. Luckily for us, Mr. Steiner’s eyes were open when he was shot. Although the right eye was decimated, the boys from the Federal Department of Memories were able to scan the left eye and should be able to tell us in a day or two who was in the bedroom with him.”

Susan shook her head. “You are absolutely crazy. Department of memories? There’s no such thing. As for the rest of your story….” Susan halted in mid sentence.

“Tell us Anna, where were you Saturday night?”

Susan’s mind felt like it had rubbed up against poison ivy. “I, uh, uh, I was at my apartment writing. I was writing a short story about…. Oh my God!”

“Can anyone verify you were there? Did you have anyone over; did you go out to eat or to the grocer’s?”

Susan was afraid to breathe, afraid to make the slightest movement. Finally, closed her eyes and asked, “Am I under arrest?”

“Not yet,” replied Agent Cano.

“If I’m not under arrest, I want to go home and call a lawyer.”

The two agents exchanged glances. “Ok, Anna, you can go for now,” said the redhead. “Agent Cano will drive you.” He produced a folder. “This is a federal warrant. It gives me the right to go through all your computer records and anything else I find in your office. We have also applied for a search warrant for your apartment, so well be visiting you at home soon. And Anna, please don’t get any ideas about leaving the city. That would end badly for you.”

On the way back to her apartment, Agent Cano tried to ask more questions, but Susan refused to answer, keeping her eyes shut, and chanting the mantra, “I can’t believe this is really happening.”

As Susan was exiting the federal agent’s car, he leaned over and said, “You know Anna, I don’t really care that this guy Steiner is dead. His greed will probably cause a stock market crash that will shake the financial foundation of this country. What I don’t like is murderers, especially those who murder for money.” As Susan started to turn, Agent Cano winked at her and added, “You have any offshore bank accounts Anna?”

Inside her apartment, Susan threw her briefcase on the sofa, ran into her home office, and powered up the iMac. While waiting for the machine to come alive, she said over and over, “I just wanted to create stories, not a life.”

When the iMac was operational, she typed www.thestorybridge into the address box. Within seconds she was taken to a plain, white page on which the following words were displayed, “Error 404. This page does not exist.”

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The Test

Last night, as I lay in bed surrounded by six softly snoring dogs, I decided I was going to take a test. Unlike the tests I’ve seen posted on various Internet blogs, the test I was going to take would be able to tell me far more than what percentage hermorphaditic, gypsy arborist I was. It would go far beyond telling me if I was a cartoon character, a liberal spelunker, or a well-regulated sexual gymnast. This would be a test that would absolutely define me in all aspects.

The test promised to inform me of things known and unknown to me. The test would tell me about my character, my health, my prejudices, my desires, my fears, and my altruism. I would find out if any of my actions have led to the death of another person or enriched someone’s life. It would examine the good in me…and the evil. It would evaluate my perceptions, it would test my loyalty, and it would see how well I dealt with joy and tragedy and stress and pain and pleasure.

The test would be long, but there would be a time limit. Many of the questions would be repeated over and over. I could go back and make some corrections, but I still had to beat the clock. There are a lot of study guides available for the test, but many of them are contradictory so, at best, they are unreliable. You are not allowed to speak with anyone who has taken the test, and from what I understand, it probably wouldn’t do you any good if you could. There is really no way you can cheat on the test. You can lie, but that’s part of the test. No, this test is a solo effort.

I couldn’t sleep last night; I kept thinking about this test I was going to take. I got out of bed at 3:00 a.m. and went into my office to prepare for the test. The dogs followed me. When I sat down in front of my desk with a hot cup of coffee, I glanced over at Roxie, my canine friend that is dying. She was doing well this morning, and as I looked at her she walked over and put her head in my lap, hoping for a morning head rub. As I looked at her, something began to dawn on me: I was already taking the test.

The test, of course, is Life. I couldn’t tell you how well I’m doing; I have no idea who is scoring it. I just hope I don’t run out of number-two pencils for a while.

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Soldier on the Rim

Read on, and it will quickly become evident that I am not a poet. However, I was challenged to write on from a list of words (in bold).

Identity revoked
He walked an unknown horizon

Consumed with rage at a land he loved
exempt from freedom

Provide and they will consume
and the years will run out.

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Helen's Robe

Helen's silk robe felt cool in his hands as he lifted it from the hook on the back of her closet door. He turned toward their bed and brushed the soft, copper-colored materiel against his right cheek; memories bloomed, emotions stirred.
The bedroom was a minimalist work of art, decorated by Helen. Earth-colored pastels and low-key lighting bathed the room, and a hint of Gia Flora perfume lingered in the air. It was their modern castle keep, a place where the world was held at bay and life began.
He undressed and, with some difficulty, he gently slipped into Helen's robe. She was petite; he was not. He walked to the bed and sat on the left edge, resting his hands on his knees, trying not to think. He closed his eyes and listened to the low murmur of the air conditioner; "womb noises," he thought. A body ripple ran through him.
He lay back on the bed and gathered the hem of the flowing robe in his hand, swiftly bringing it to his face, and covering his head. Helen's fragrance danced through his nostrils and into his brain, igniting pain and pleasure in his being. He cried dry tears as Helen's robe held him.
Hours passed, a night of sleepless hours. When the morning broke, he returned to Helen's closet and disrobed. "One day at a time," they told him, "You just keep on one day at a time."
He put on Helen's little black dress and went grocery shopping.

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Pathetic Bob's Holiday Fiasco (Part One)

Pathetic Bob’s Holiday Fiasco

It was four days before Christmas when the call came at two in the morning. “Hey Em, it’s me, Pathetic Bob,” said the voice on the other end of he line.
I sat up, cleared my head and said, “Bob, this isn’t funny. Did you steal my cell phone again?”
“No, no, it’s not that. Listen Em, you’ve got to drive down to Laredo and bail us out of the Animal Control facility. They are holding us here for the Homeland Security people.”
“What!” I yelled. “Who’s ‘us,’ and how did you get to Laredo?”
“It’s a long story Em, just get down here as fast as you can. I’ve got Sophie, Judy, Zipper, Lily, and the two cats with me. Oh, bring the station wagon, we’ve got 22 squirrels with us.” The phone went dead.
I was fairly sure Bob was screwing with my head again, but upon searching the house, none of the animals could be found, so I called the pound in Laredo. I quickly obtained the number from information and soon found myself on the line with an Officer Garcia. “Excuse me officer,” I began, “but I just got a phone call from one of the dogs that live with me saying he had been arrested and detained in your facility. I know it’s probably a hoax, but I thought I’d better check.”
“Well,” Garcia laughed, “we got a lot of dogs here, but not many who speak English. What does your dog look like?” I could hear laughter in the background.
“He’s, uh, skinny, brown, has a pointed nose, and he’s a real smartass. He goes by the name of Bob.”
“Yeah, I think we got your dog. He came in an hour or so ago with four other dogs and a bunch of squirrels, and he hasn’t shut up since. He keeps demanding a lawyer and is threatening to ‘sue our asses.’ The Homeland Security boys brought the whole crew in on charges of smuggling, violating air space, counterfeit visas, and several other charges. They impounded their vehicle and cargo, too.”
“What vehicle and cargo? Bob doesn’t even drive. What the hell is going on down there?”
Officer Garcia got all official-like and said, “Listen Mister…uh….
“Em,” I told him.
“Yeah, right. Listen Mr. Em, I think you better get down here fast. This whole gang is in a world of trouble, and the feds are going to want to question you, too.”
“Me?” I stammered, “I didn’t do anything. Why do they want to question me?”
“Just get down here, OK, we’ll see if we can get this thing sorted out.”
I didn’t want to wake Mrs. Em, so I wrote her a note and told her what was happening, and then started out on the long drive to Laredo. Along the way, I played out several scenarios in my head, all of them ending with my unfortunate incarceration in a federal prison. Damn that Bob, if he didn’t get jail time, I was going to whack him.
Two and a half hours after I began the trip, I pulled into the parking lot of the Laredo City Animal Shelter. I got out of the station wagon, stretched my legs, and then knocked on the metal door. A slender man of medium build opened the door and asked what I wanted. After I explained who I was and why I was there, the man smiled and said, “I’m Officer Garcia; I’ve been expecting you.”
Garcia had a pleasant smile for such a stern-faced man. I had a vague notion I’d seen him before. “Do I know you?” I asked.
“I don’t think so,” he replied. “All us Mexican-Americans look alike to you gringos.”
“Great,” I thought, “I just got in the door, and I’m being accused of being a racist. This does not bode well for gaining my animals release.”
Then it hit me. With his pencil-thin mustache and soul patch, Garcia was the spitting image of Edward James Olmos’ character in Blade Runner. I explained why he seemed familiar, and he said, “Yeah, I get that a lot.”
I steered the conversation in another direction. “Anyway, what the hell is going on with the dogs and cats and squirrels? Bob wouldn’t tell me anything on the phone, and you weren’t much help, either.”
“Just calm down Mr., uh, I forgot your name.”
“Call me Em.”
“M?”
“No, Em.”
“Em…hmmm…that sounds like some kind of code name. If I were you, I’d make up another name when you talk to the feds.”
“The feds are here?”
“Yeah, they’re in my office interrogating your dog, Bob, and he keeps demanding a lawyer and roast beef. The other dogs, the cats, and the squirrels are on the cell block screaming ‘Attica, Attica.’”
“What are they being charged with?”
“Well, see, as far as I know, they haven’t been officially charged with anything…yet. The immigration guys are saying they may have entered the country illegally, but some Mexican officials have called to complain the animals entered Mexico illegally. That’s all up in the air right now. Homeland Security seems to be suspicious they may be part of some kind of weird terrorist plot. The geniuses from the DEA think Pathetic Bob could be a narco kingpin who was smuggling drugs into Mexico hidden in an assortment of nutshells. Now, I’m not as brilliant as these federal drug cops, but I’ve never heard of anyone smuggling drugs into Mexico. If you ask me, I think your dog is a pain in the ass, but I don’t really see him as some kind of master criminal. I think you’d better get in there and try to talk some sense into him.”
I gave a sad smile to Officer Garcia, who I was beginning to like more and more. “First of all, he’s not really my dog; he just lives with me, and I finance his lifestyle. And, although Bob is an educated dog and speaks several languages, all of his sense lies in his nose, eyes, and ears. His brain seems to function in some weird dimension.”
“I can believe that,” said Garcia, “but if you want to save him and the other animals, you’d better think of something fast. Come on, I’ll take you to see him and the federal agents.”
As we headed to Garcia’s office, my nervousness increased, and I could taste fear on the back of my tongue, brought on by my natural instinct of not trusting governments or government agents.
Officer Garcia knocked on the office door then ushered me into his small, dark office, which was crowded with men and women in suits and uniforms. Pathetic Bob sat on a gray, metal desk in the center of the room; a bare light bulb hung from the ceiling directly over Bob’s head. As I entered the room, Bob turned to me an cried, “Em, help me. These ignorant bastards are going to waterboard me and send me to Guantanamo prison. I haven’t done anything wrong, but these idiots think I’m working for Osama Bin Laden or the Mendoza drug cartel. That moron over there,” he growled, pointing at a rotund, bald man in a La Migra uniform, “is accusing me of being an illegal alien. They won’t tell me what they’ve done with the other dogs and the two cats. They’ve even illegally detained Randy and Milo and their friends. This is a city pound, not a place for squirrels.”
“He’s right,” offered Officer Garcia, “we’re not supposed to put squirrels in the kennels.”
At that moment, all the government androids began talking at once, causing a din of babble.
“Hold on!” I yelled. “I can’t understand a damn thing with all of you talking at once.”
The noised died, and I continued. “Look, before I talk to any of you people, I want to talk to my client…uh…I mean the dog. For now, I’m representing him, so I’d like you to leave while I confer with him.”
Although there was a chorus of objections, it was finally agreed I could have 15 minutes alone with Bob. I watched the feds file out of the room, and then I turned to Bob.
“Em,” he said excitedly, “you’re not going to believe what happened.”
I stared hard into the dog’s eyes. “You are absolutely right, Bob, I’m not going to believe what you tell me happened. In fact, I know you are going to embellish the hell out of the truth. But, before you begin your pathetic explanation, I want you to know I’m pissed. I’m really pissed. It’s not just that you made me haul my ass out of a warm bed at two in the morning and drive a hundred and fifty miles; living with you has taught me to expect things like that. I’m not even that upset that you’ve managed to involve the other dogs in whatever weird adventure you’ve undertaken, although leading a puppy astray is a new low for you. I’m surprised Milo and Randy are part of this, and I can’t imagine what you did to induce them to participate. As for the 20 other squirrels, hell, that’s really got me stumped, but I can live with it.”
Pathetic Bob’s tail was like a windshield wiper on high as I was talking. As I took a breath, he tried to jump in. “But Em, I….”
“Quiet,” I demanded, “I’m not finished. You’ll get your turn when I’m finished. You see Bob, I can handle all the stuff I just mentioned, but this time, you’ve gotten my involved with government agents. Government agents Bob! We could all end up doing hard time in six-by-eight cells with roommates with names like “Torpedo” or “El Diablo.” This is serious stuff. We could be held without charges for years; they could screw with your dog license or take away my library card. That’s why I’m pissed Bob, really, really pissed.”
Bob blinked his doe eyes and said, “Yeah, whatever. Can I talk now?”
I sighed, pulled up a green, metal chair, and sat with my head in my hands. “Ok, go ahead, let’s hear it.”

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