The Dog Must Pee
So I went outside today for the first time in four days. I know it’s been four days because my husband said, “Do you realize I’ve been taking this dog out every time for four days?” The only reason I went outside today is because my husband’s comment led me to conclude that if I didn’t get my butt off the futon and take the dog out, she might be left with no choice but to pee on the apartment floor.
I’ve been sick. Under any circumstance, sickness is a nasty, unpleasant business. Yeah, my illness is “just” a sinus infection, but at various times I’ve thought I would choke, drown, or hack myself to death, not to mention suffocating beneath the pile of discarded kleenex. Plus, I’ve got the pink eye. Pink eye! A childhood affliction that I waited until my fifth decade to contract. Talk about your slow learners. Quelle embarrassing, as Holly Golightly would say.
I’m getting better, obviously—I’m online, typing to you. I’m sure my husband sensed this improvement and intuited a bit of malingering on my part when it came to dog-walking. Or maybe he wanted me to get some fresh air, figuring I was about to start growing moldy if I didn’t.
In any event, I’m glad I heaved myself off the futon, clipped the leash on the dog, and rode the elevator down two flights to the outdoors—what a brave, courageous soul I am!
The sun made me blink like a mole. The dog and I sat on the concrete steps and enjoyed the breeze. I ruffled her warming fur. When we’d had enough, we rode the elevator home.
Oh, and she peed. In the grass.
here’s to creative synthesis . . .