Don't Tell Dad

Hush, little doggy. He'll never know... 
 unless the SJG blogs about it.

The door opens before I've even turned the key.  A woman looks at me, weirdly.  A tiny white fluff ball of a dog comes barking down the hall to greet me.  Instant SJG discombobulation.  Major Talking Heads moment.  This is not my dad's place!  This is not his beautiful condo!  Well...How did I get here?  I'm pretty sure I made the trek from Sherman Oaks, that's how.  I'm on the hunt for "screeners," as we show biz folk like to call 'em.  Dad's my contact.  We have an arrangement.  He won't be home, but I can come by and pick up the contraband.  Hush hush.  But my dad doesn't have a dog.  He lives alone.  So, what's with the dog and the lady at the door?  Am I in the wrong building?  The wrong dimension?  Oh, hang on.  It's coming to me.  Right condo.  Same as it ever was.  Whew.  The gal is his housekeeper.  The dog belongs to her.  I start laughing and playing with the cutest maltipoo ever.  "Hello, there.  Who are you?" "He's Max."  "Max, does my dad know you're here?"  "No," the housekeeper says.  "I don't think he'd like it," I say. "But he's trained."  "Doesn't matter."  "I only do it once in a while.  He's my son's dog."  "Let's keep this between us." "Okay."  "I won't tell my dad.  Promise."  I leave with the coveted DVDs, laughing my tush off.  I'm not going to tell my dad about this.  Are you?