The hound ventures out

Lately I’ve been on-loan to another team at my job. Things are going well in the sense that I’m appreciated, they like the way I think, and they value my input. Things aren’t going well in that they want me to attend two meetings per day and read through 106 emails per week.

If there are two work-type things I most don’t enjoy, those are they.

(I take that back. Those are numbers 2 and 3 behind filling out my actuals, detailing how many hours I spent on each project.)

Anyway, during minute 64 of my 30-minute meeting, my brother’s dog started doing his “I really need to take a leak” dance. I was on a blog hiatus when I learned the unfortunate events that occur when said dance is ignored (or in my case then, misinterpreted), so I can’t reference back to that story.

That being said, I took ol’ Maxwell’s sidesteps seriously and opened the door for him. Instead of high-tailing it (har har) to a nearby bush and returning to the house, the fucker just took off.

I’m in a meeting with some important person trying to talk through our pagination and grouping options, so I’m not much help in doing, well, anything to prevent the 67 pounds of dust and fur from doing whatever he wants to do.

Le sigh.

I resign myself to finishing out my meeting and then searching for the flea bag.

Those who know me in real life or via Facebook know that I’m now the owner of a shiny, new SUV. It’s really, really nice, and I keep it really, really clean. I even have Airwick clip-on things to make my car smell like dryer sheets.

In sum, there’s no way I’m letting that sack of shed in my new whip.

I rummaged through the collection of keys for the Keena fleet, coming up with the key for the only non-nice car we’ve got: my brother’s truck. (He’s currently driving my dad’s truck around school while some routine maintenance is performed on what he affectionately (and facetiously) calls his Black Beauty.)

The thing with my brother’s truck is… well, it’s been driven by a young man in his early 20s. It smells like boy. My above-mentioned Airwick clips have nothing on the salty scent that wafts when you merely crack open the door.

So with the windows open and my head hanging out, I took ol’ Black Beauty in search of that nasty beast.

I searched. And I searched. And I searched.

That asshole dog was nowhere to be found.

Because there was nothing more for me to do and I knew I’d get my ass chewed by my maa for losing the geriatric hound, I went and ate crab legs with my sister.

(In one short week back in Houston, I have clearly reverted back to being 15.)

Mid-way through our butter-dipped friends of the Alaskan variety, I got a text from my dad saying it was safe to go home since the dog was found.

And where was he, as my mom made a single lap in Black Beauty?

One goddamn street over, playing with some puppies!

No matter how frustrating it was to worry about said dog (Did I mention that he’s ten years old? And half-deaf? And possibly half-blind?) and circle the ‘hood over and over, I’m glad he’s safe.

Now, if he’d quit farting while lying next to me, we’d be even better.


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