Monday, October 27, 2008

Saturday Night

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.”
“She knows.”
He looks down the stairwell again. “And when is she coming home?”
“Tomorrow night.”
“That’s too long.”
“I agree.”


Johannes said...

Perhaps if you spent some time shredding and eating cardboard WITH him,...

Cartooniste said...

Dear Smaller Dog,

Since I am bigger and older, I'll tell you some stuff.

See, sometimes they go away. I don't know why. Occasionally one of them tries to explain it all to me beforehand, which is how I can tell that they're leaving.

If they're packing a bag, it's a bad sign. If they are getting out the dog crate it's a *really* bad sign. If they're just putting on coats and getting their handbags, it's not so bad.

But the great thing is, they always come back! That's what's great about them.

Also, they feel guilty. So they'll give you cheese.


ANCIANT said...

Dear Larger Dog,

Cheese? What is this thing called cheese? No one has ever given me a taste, or even a smell.

They do give me bits of ground pork sometimes, though. Ummmm. Pork.