Monday, October 27, 2008
The Bink paces in the entryway to our apartment, a small white rectangle of tile. Every few minutes he goes to the foot of the stairs and peers down, mournfully, into the yawning darkness.
“Why isn’t she here?”
“She’s in Washington, Bink. She’s not coming back till tomorrow.”
“Washington? What’s that?”
“It’s a city. It’s far away.”
“Why would she go there?”
“It’s part of her work.”
He sniffs, disbelieving. "Work" for Bink consists mostly of tearing large pieces of cardboard into still smaller pieces of cardboard, shredding those with his claws, and then eating what remains. It's no wonder he can't conceive how it could involve cross-country flight.
“Doesn’t she know that I’m here? I’m not in Washingon. I’m here.”
He looks down the stairwell again. “And when is she coming home?”
“That’s too long.”