“Yes, the saints. I understand animals may have been involved at some point.”
“What? That’s just…” I try to process this.
“I know you find your parents embarrassing, but at least we stick to our own species.” She tells me this like she should get an award for it.
“Yes, I remember,” I say, the old resentment poking through. Normally, I wouldn’t bother, but I’m in an extra-crabby mood, and her standard of behavior—which is even lower than I expected—is annoying the hell out of me.
“What are you talking about?” she asks.
“Does the name Churchill ring a bell?”
“Of course. The prime minister from way back when.”
I knew it!She still doesn’t remember! “No, my dog. The puppy I loved. You got rid of him.”
There’s a pause. “Oh. That nasty little thing?”
“He wasn’t nasty!” I shout into the phone. That dog was awesome.
“No, he was a mean little beast. He hated everyone.”
“He did not. He was a good, loving dog.”
“Maybe to you. But he was a horror to everyone else, always biting and snarling.”
“You’re lying.”
“Why would I lie about a dog that’s dead by now? Trust me, he bit me multiple times and I couldn’t get him to stop. I thought I would scar! And he was a legal liability. I simply didn’t want to put up with him any longer. It was best to get rid of the animal, and I distinctly remember telling you all this when I put him up for adoption. It’s not my fault if you weren’t listening.”
I think back, but don’t remember her telling me anything like that. Regardless, it was a crappy thing for her to do. She didn’t even get me a new puppy. Never did.
“If you’re still that upset about the matter, then by all means go get yourself a new dog. Ideally, a sane one that doesn’t try to eviscerate the people around you.”
“I’m not getting a dog,” I say. “It’s too late now.”
“Don’t be silly. Nothing’s ever too late.”
Easy for her to say. No new dog is ever going to be Churchill. “Right. I guess that’s why you’re still clinging to your youth.”
“What does that have to do with anything? What would letting myself go accomplish? Nothing. I am beautiful, and I can make an impact. If somebody out there thinks I’m too old, that’s their problem, not mine. The hell with them and their approval.”
“Are you telling me you honestly don’t care? Because it looks to me like you’re posting a billion pictures on social media for likes and comments.”
“I post them so people know that I exist and I matter. But I don’t let them control me. I do what I want. You should learn to do that too. You’re far too old now to be caring about what people think.” She pauses. “Really. It’s no longer cute.”
“I won’t be lectured by someone who thinks orgy videos are fine as long as there aren’t any animals involved.”
“It’s not a lecture, silly! It’s advice from somebody with more experience. How would you put it? I have more data points to draw from.”
I don’t respond. I’m not going to encourage her by saying she’s correct about the data points.
She continues, “Oh, I know. You’re probably still upset about what the article said about being Ted’s and my love child. And probably still stewing over someone saying that you inspired Sierra to create a new line of sex toys.”
I’m definitely not telling her she’s correct.
“And all because you want everyone to take you seriously.”
“I am a serious kind of a guy.”