I was in a terrible mood all day. (I seem to find myself in this mood once every 28 days. Go figure) Like the kind of mood that causes me to want to kick in the throat anyone who looked at me funny.
Or at all.
As a matter of fact, the simple infraction of being anywhere in my presence was kick-to-the-throat-worthy in my eyes today.
(Perhaps I shouldn’t have gone to work this morning.)
Speaking of things that make me want to punch a staple into the webbing between someone’s toes… The Dog Lady. (The story begins here.)
It seems Mister Steven “I’ve Gained A Few” Segal has labored up onto his winded white horse and trotted off into the sunset, leaving me to deal with Old Drunky and her three tiny terrorists on my own. I’ve considered everything from valium laced Milkbones to borrowing the neighbor’s Pitt Bull. (It’s a dog-eat-dog world, right?) However, I don’t actually hate small dogs--I just hate their irresponsible cheap-beer swilling elderly owners-- so neither option sits well with my conscience.
Come see me after two more weeks of that incessant barking and ask me about my conscience.
Anyway, I think I’ve formulated a plan. Next time I venture into the back yard I’m going to record those little dogs yapping, yapping, yapping at me. Then, next time I’m alone in the house I’m going to load up the recording, set the biggest speaker I can find in the window of our house closest to a window of hers, and turn it on.
All day long.
And when she finally sobers up long enough to figure out what’s going on, she’ll either realize the error of her horrible dog-ownership ways, or she’ll toddle over to my house to ask me to turn the sound off. At that time I’ll calmly explain to her…
Who am I kidding?
I tried to warn you…