So Romantical

As anniversaries go, yesterday's was definitely our most romantical, which isn't a word, but should be, in my humble opinion. There were so many special surprises in store, my keppy is still spinning, just trying to remember it all. Before I could even wish hubby a happy 37th, he yelled upstairs, "There's something wrong with the Internet." "Oh, honey, happy anniversary to you, too." "Happy anniversary. This is serious." Man of my dreams that he is, he spent the next eight hours figuring it out with people from India. There were exciting updates along the way: "It's working." Followed five minutes later by, "@#$%'n piece of @#$%!" Like I said. Romantical.

Meanwhile, I played host to Bob and Larry, the Flea Mavens, who powdered and sprayed and flipped over couch cushions and pointed out icky flea leftovers like detectives at a crime scene. "See that? See that?" Larry turned out to be the more thoughtful Flea Maven. "I'm not going to charge you extra for your car." "Aw, Larry, really?" I gushed. "Yeah, you can just give us a nice tip." "How about a glass of champagne, too? It's our anniversary." "No drinking on the job, ma'am. We'll take the bottle to go."


Just as Bob and Larry got ready to depart, and not a second too soon, right on cue, a new and exciting scenario appeared. A little unidentified doggy came charging across the front yard, and burrowed into the far corner right under the sign that said "Beware of Dog." Well played, doggy! Chasing after him: a married couple from one street over. Had the runaway doggy been theirs, this part of the tail would start wagging. (See what I did there?) But that's just not how things go for the SJG. "We don't know whose it is," the wife said. "We're not getting another dog," the husband said. "We were so worried he was going to get hit," the wife said. "He likes your house. Want to keep him?" the husband asked. "Wait, what?" was all I could manage. "He's hungry," the wife said. "You got a snack for him?" the husband asked. "Is he kosher?" I asked. The husband said, "Make sure it's glatt." I came back with some forbidden cheddar, which I'll atone for come Yom Kippur, a dish of water, and a lasso-type leash that I tried to place on the lost pup's neck. In return, I got a sharp nip on my thumb. "@#$% this," I said to the wife and husband who'd brought additional suffering to my day.

"We'll put it on NextDoor," the husband said. "Next What?" "NextDoor. We'll alert the neighbors that a dog is missing. I'm sure someone will come claim him." "Thanks for watching the dog," the wife said. "Hang on! You're going?" "He seems so happy here." "Happy? He's shaking in terror." "Put a gate up so he doesn't get out," the husband called. And off they went, into the sunset.

The upshot of the lost pup: Three hours later, maybe four, a concerned citizen (let's just leave it at that) took the frightened little guy to get scanned at an animal hospital. By some miracle, he'd been micro-chipped. But when they called the owner, he played dumb. "Dog? What dog? I don't know about a dog." So the pup from Pacoima had most likely been dumped at the dog walk down the street from us.  How sad is that? And now he's at the East Valley Animal Shelter, where, God willing, someone kind will adopt him.