The blizzard came and stayed. There’s so much sub-zero snow outside that the rottweiler really doesn’t know whether to shit or go blind. I’m encouraging her to pee and shit outside. I even put on actual clothes, boots, gloves, black ski mask the rottweiler carried home several years ago, and shoveled an area big enough for her to squat down without exposing her butt and doggy poon to what Lutherans call Schnee. The things we do for love.
When I write “actual clothes”, I mean garments not associated with debauched lounging. I’ve become so comfortable in my daily sloth that I think nothing of engaging in small talk with the occasional guest wearing dirty sweat pants, ill-fitting pullover and what can best be described as very cheap house shoes. To complete my look, I omit shoving into place Dr. Benway’s handmade upper dental partial. Wearing the porcelain prosthetic feels unnatural, like drinking coffee after 7:30 AM with no pick me up. Every now and then a Jehovah’s Witness pays their dues. Imagine if Larry David wrote the scene where Clarice Starling meets Jame Gumm. They usually make a hasty retreat when I insist that they listen to the audio version of Nimoy’s “I Am Not Spock” as a token of my appreciation for the free Watchtower.
