I omitted one tiny detail yesterday. It was an honest mistake. Really. Not like I was trying to cover up a crime. Give the alleged perpetrator the benefit of the doubt. Nope. I simply forgot. Actually, I forgot two tiny details.
As The Pony and I came up the driveway with the groceries jostling in the carpeted rear of T-Hoe, we saw that Hick's oldest son, a regular adult, was visiting with him on the brick sidewalk between the garage and the house. Juno scampered hither and yon, unable to decide whether to greet us and the groceries, or revel in the attention of the once-a-week visitor.
Of course she chose me. It had nothing to do with the bags of foodstuffs. Of that I am sure. Juno does not bother the provisions. That's just a rumor started by Hick, perpetuated by The Pony. For no good reason other than to smear Juno's stellar reputation. Green-eyed jealousy will make both man and beast discredit another for their own benefit.
The Pony ran inside with his laptop and other precious traveling possessions. As I was getting the bags out of the back hatch to set on the side porch for The Pony's return, I heard Hick raising a ruckus.
"Juno! Get back here! Give me my glove!"
At no time did I see Juno with a glove. All I could see through the garage door was her shiny black twisting rumpus and feathery swinging tail. She squirms like that when she wants attention. As I came out onto the sidewalk, I said, "There you go, blaming my dog again."
"She had my glove! It's the last one left. I guess she ran off with the other one yesterday!"
"Oh, sure. Like she wants your glove."
"I just pried it out of her mouth!"
"I didn't see that." Heh, heh. You've got to get up pretty early in the morning and shove a couple of dozen brown jersey work gloves in Juno's mouth and take a picture of it to fool me. Criminy! You can get those gloves for $0.09888888 apiece! It's not like this special pup stole the Hope Diamond.
I set down the first batch of bags and went back for more. The Pony snatched them up and took them inside. The next load included cold foods. A long Walmart deli sandwich stuck out of one plastic sack. Juno was trying to get to me for our lovefest. It just so happens that her tasty, rubbery black nose inadvertently landed upon the cellophane wrapper of that sandwich where it stuck out of the bag. An accident. I'm sure.
"Juno! Get your nose out of the groceries!" The Pony had a smirk on his face. He was taunting me. I'm sure. He's such a trickster.
"She was only coming to me. See there? What a sweet girl you are, Juno!" Let the record show that I spoke in a clipped manner, and kept my jaw partially locked in order to maintain a minimal mouth opening. My doubters rolled their collective eyes.
I did not feel that it was the right time to compliment Juno on her silky shiny coat. I'm sure it cannot be attributed to anything supplementing her diet while we are away from home for ten hours a day. No. My sweet, sweet Juno did not need validation for her healthy fur.
Somebody might have gotten the wrong idea.
Poor Juno. ANOTHER time when prejudice rears its ugly head and bites her in the rear...ReplyDelete
Is your family jealous of all the attention Juno receives? If reincarnation is real I want to come back as your dog.ReplyDelete
I'm not sure why you don't write a book... you should give NaNo a try. I think you could do it with ease!ReplyDelete
At least she has a glove somewhere with which to slap her detractors across the kisser, and challenge them to a duel.
I'm starting to think that green-eyed monster is alive and well and living upstairs above my dark basement lair. If you find yourself in the future with flowing, silky black locks, expressive amber eyes, a svelte physique, and a heart of gold...please refrain from inserting your moist rubbery nose into my mouth.
Ack! The PRESSURE! That's why. I'm quite prolific in a pantser/eclectic/off-the-cuff sort of style. I lack a unifying thread.
Val--Good grief. It could be a soap opera style novel--Livin' in the Mansion.ReplyDelete
Of course. And up front, I would be sure to put the disclaimer:
"Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely cold hard fact."
In my case, that might be called a claimer.