I noticed your light was on
this morning around three,
she says. Up all night, huh?
I shrug. “A lot of it.
Something about the bedsprings
creaking next door.”
We left it at that and went on
about our business. Which is
a good thing. Sleep-deprived, brain
sizzling on yet another toke, my
thought processes are jumbled.
I’m not a worthy opponent.
The plan is a birthday dinner
at our favorite Italian bistro.
But dinner for six (plus room
for an infant seat) becomes suddenly
complicated when Dad’s “new” ‘98
Montero wheezes up the driveway.
Otto barks, announcing a stranger’s
arrival. Dad sits in his car a good
long while, no doubt ascertaining
his safety. Truth be told, Otto—
a hundred-pound black sable German
shepherd—would probably eat
Dad for lunch. I know he’d love
to take a big bite out of Dad’s new
girlfriend, Linda Sue.
But locked safely away behind
six-foot chain-link, he won’t
get the chance. Poor dog.