“Timmy’s missing again,” my wife sighed as she lorded it over the stove top, stirring a wooden spoon slowly in a pot. “And dinner will be ready in less than an hour.”
I sighed back, “I’ll check the pound.”
As usual, the parking lot was packed. It wasn’t a long drive, though, so I was there in fifteen minutes and walking past all the children whose fingers were invariably wrapped tightly around the wires of their cage fronts or poking through those wires, as they eyed me and shouted out, “Pick me, Sir! Pick me!” A pasty-looking girl in a ridiculous pinafore barked, “I get straight As! I’ve only had one B in my entire life!” As I drew closer to give her a second look, she snarled and then bounded out through the hole at the back of her cage into the exercise yard, presumably to bite another child.
I saw Timmy consorting with the child in the cage next to his. They were trading something, some sort of contraband. Timmy smiled up at me broadly and asked me what’s for supper. I won’t reproduce the string of invective that flowed from his mouth as I called the kennel tender to open the cage of the child next to his. I didn’t look back once as we three went off together, to sign the papers and pay the fine.
I arrived home with three minutes to spare. The large empty bowls were on the dining room table. My wife smiled much more peacefully as she ladled out the mix of vegetables and who knows what else.
“Welcome home,….?” she said to the boy sitting in Timmy’s chair.
“Ralph,” he finished her sentence. He had heard the question mark.
“Thank you, Mother,” he chimed as he began spooning the stewy muck into his mouth.
“I’m Mom, but I’m also Doris,” she explained, pointing to her chest with her expensively manicured index finger. Her apron had “Fran” stitched on it in red thread.
“I love my family so goddamn much!” I barked in my gruffest dad voice. “Let’s go pass a football after dinner!”
“Indeed, father,” Ralph said, as casual as any psychopathic child. “Footballs are the super-glue of families.”
Mr. Bully Boy, our pit bull, came trotting into the dining room just then and took a chunk out of my wife’s leg, then threw his huge body against the screen door out in the kitchen, which gave way, and ran off to enjoy it somewhere.
“He doesn’t know her yet,” I explained to the boy as my wife went off to bandage her gaping wound.
“Maybe you should take him to the pound, Dad,” Ralph wisely suggested. I liked this kid already.
“Actually, how do you feel about a new mommy?” I asked, as I stroked the chip-off-the-old-block’s hair.
“It sounds like a capital idea, Sir.” my son whispered ingratiatingly. “The spicing of this stew is pedestrian at best.”
But as I went to pee, I heard my wife on the phone in the next room, in total darkness. I could hear the pretend panic in her voice. We’ve all gotten so good at that pretend panic voice now.
“Is this the pound? Listen, there’s a strange man in my house. He’s impersonating my husband. Please hurry. And bring the right goddamn sedatives this time. The last husband ruined my china before you got him to the van. What sort of amateurs are you hiring these days?”
I went into my bedroom and started packing, loading my pockets with a few of my favorite things.
And then I thought about how to say goodbye to my son. I tried to remember words from a television movie I really hated.
Too bad she beat me to the dial. I’m going to miss that kid. One more call and I think we could have had the family just right. The dog knew she was wrong for the role. Dogs always know. I’m gonna miss that dog.
I heard the van brake loudly out front just then, so I sat on the edge of my bed and prepared to act surprised and emotionally wounded.
I sighed back, “I’ll check the pound.”
As usual, the parking lot was packed. It wasn’t a long drive, though, so I was there in fifteen minutes and walking past all the children whose fingers were invariably wrapped tightly around the wires of their cage fronts or poking through those wires, as they eyed me and shouted out, “Pick me, Sir! Pick me!” A pasty-looking girl in a ridiculous pinafore barked, “I get straight As! I’ve only had one B in my entire life!” As I drew closer to give her a second look, she snarled and then bounded out through the hole at the back of her cage into the exercise yard, presumably to bite another child.
I saw Timmy consorting with the child in the cage next to his. They were trading something, some sort of contraband. Timmy smiled up at me broadly and asked me what’s for supper. I won’t reproduce the string of invective that flowed from his mouth as I called the kennel tender to open the cage of the child next to his. I didn’t look back once as we three went off together, to sign the papers and pay the fine.
I arrived home with three minutes to spare. The large empty bowls were on the dining room table. My wife smiled much more peacefully as she ladled out the mix of vegetables and who knows what else.
“Welcome home,….?” she said to the boy sitting in Timmy’s chair.
“Ralph,” he finished her sentence. He had heard the question mark.
“Thank you, Mother,” he chimed as he began spooning the stewy muck into his mouth.
“I’m Mom, but I’m also Doris,” she explained, pointing to her chest with her expensively manicured index finger. Her apron had “Fran” stitched on it in red thread.
“I love my family so goddamn much!” I barked in my gruffest dad voice. “Let’s go pass a football after dinner!”
“Indeed, father,” Ralph said, as casual as any psychopathic child. “Footballs are the super-glue of families.”
Mr. Bully Boy, our pit bull, came trotting into the dining room just then and took a chunk out of my wife’s leg, then threw his huge body against the screen door out in the kitchen, which gave way, and ran off to enjoy it somewhere.
“He doesn’t know her yet,” I explained to the boy as my wife went off to bandage her gaping wound.
“Maybe you should take him to the pound, Dad,” Ralph wisely suggested. I liked this kid already.
“Actually, how do you feel about a new mommy?” I asked, as I stroked the chip-off-the-old-block’s hair.
“It sounds like a capital idea, Sir.” my son whispered ingratiatingly. “The spicing of this stew is pedestrian at best.”
But as I went to pee, I heard my wife on the phone in the next room, in total darkness. I could hear the pretend panic in her voice. We’ve all gotten so good at that pretend panic voice now.
“Is this the pound? Listen, there’s a strange man in my house. He’s impersonating my husband. Please hurry. And bring the right goddamn sedatives this time. The last husband ruined my china before you got him to the van. What sort of amateurs are you hiring these days?”
I went into my bedroom and started packing, loading my pockets with a few of my favorite things.
And then I thought about how to say goodbye to my son. I tried to remember words from a television movie I really hated.
Too bad she beat me to the dial. I’m going to miss that kid. One more call and I think we could have had the family just right. The dog knew she was wrong for the role. Dogs always know. I’m gonna miss that dog.
I heard the van brake loudly out front just then, so I sat on the edge of my bed and prepared to act surprised and emotionally wounded.
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