a horse but is too nervous to relax his bowels. I think he’s traumatized after his rescue and being in a strange house, not to mention getting a new hairdo. I need to think of a way to help him relax. All he really needs is a familiar setting to do his business.
The Jersey Guy should be at work while Floyd has a rendezvous with his old yard. I rub Floyd’s little curly head and tell him it’s gonna be all right and carry him out to the car. We ride with the windows down so Floyd’s gas won’t kill us both. As we approach Floyd’s old neighborhood, it’s apparent he knows exactly where he is. As soon as he catches a whiff of it, he jumps up with his paws on the back window and whimpers like dogs do when they’re riding in a car and get close to an old stomping ground. When I open the door, he bolts down the street to the Jersey Guy’s yard but cannot make it to the grass, so begins to make his debut as Floyd the Dark Blue right there on the driveway.
Floyd takes his time, too. Even though I’ve been standing here waiting for him for maybe thirty seconds, it feels like he’s been hunched over forever.
Hurry up, Floyd. I’m antsy to get us back in the car. Then out of the blue I hear this buzzing sound. It is the buzzing sound associated with electric garage doors. The Jersey Guy’s garage door begins to slowly creak upwards. I start to panic. An ignition starts, and the rear end of his Lexus begins to appear under the rising door. Floyd is not quite finished.
“Floyd. Come. Come here now! Hurry!”
Floyd is not coming.
“Floyd, come!” I whisper as loud as I can. “Champagne!”
He has finished the deed, but won’t come. He just looks at me, like he’s deciding. Weighing his options. Should he stay here with the Jersey Guy, or should he go with his kidnapper? When the Jersey Guy sees his dog has been dyed blue, he’ll call the cops, and it will be all over the Brightleaf Daily News that someone vandalized the Jersey Guy’s dog. Me and Mavis will go to jail. Mavis will be cleared, and I alone will rot in prison forever.
The garage door is all the way open. I turn and start sprinting towards my car. I am busting my butt to get my keys out. My hands are shaking, and my brain is in full throttle freak-out mode. I pull out my sunglasses, shoving them on my face, keeping my head turned away from the scene unfolding behind me.
The Lexus begins to back out of the garage. I can’t look. I won’t watch. I reach my car and open the door and am shocked when Floyd hops up onto the front seat. I turn to look back at the Jersey Guy’s house. His car has backed out all the way onto the street, with one long brown tire mark going down the driveway. Then the Jersey Guy drives away.
Floyd looks at me expectantly, panting, his tongue lolling out, with a huge grin on his face. He knows he was playing me back there. I pull a dog biscuit from the glove compartment and hand it to him, my heart still beating through my eardrums, and say, “You did good, Floyd.”
6
The Gynecologist
I stand in my bedroom, wearing only my bra and underwear, debating what to wear to my doctor’s appointment today. I decide against a dress because when they ask me to take off my shirt for the mammogram, I’ll have to take off the entire thing. So I opt for a shirt that buttons up the front and a skirt, just in case.
I am paranoid of hidden cameras. I don’t really believe that a female doctor would have hidden cameras for depraved reasons like a man doctor might, but mainly to catch women stealing stuff, like alcohol prep pads. Those are handy. I think women in general just like to snoop—to open drawers real quietly, look inside and close them again. My own curiosity is kept in check by the fear that there are probably hidden cameras everywhere.
I read on the Internet once that a lawyer had hidden cameras planted in the toilets at his office. Recording from inside the toilet. I wondered what he did with those videos. Like come
The Jersey Guy should be at work while Floyd has a rendezvous with his old yard. I rub Floyd’s little curly head and tell him it’s gonna be all right and carry him out to the car. We ride with the windows down so Floyd’s gas won’t kill us both. As we approach Floyd’s old neighborhood, it’s apparent he knows exactly where he is. As soon as he catches a whiff of it, he jumps up with his paws on the back window and whimpers like dogs do when they’re riding in a car and get close to an old stomping ground. When I open the door, he bolts down the street to the Jersey Guy’s yard but cannot make it to the grass, so begins to make his debut as Floyd the Dark Blue right there on the driveway.
Floyd takes his time, too. Even though I’ve been standing here waiting for him for maybe thirty seconds, it feels like he’s been hunched over forever.
Hurry up, Floyd. I’m antsy to get us back in the car. Then out of the blue I hear this buzzing sound. It is the buzzing sound associated with electric garage doors. The Jersey Guy’s garage door begins to slowly creak upwards. I start to panic. An ignition starts, and the rear end of his Lexus begins to appear under the rising door. Floyd is not quite finished.
“Floyd. Come. Come here now! Hurry!”
Floyd is not coming.
“Floyd, come!” I whisper as loud as I can. “Champagne!”
He has finished the deed, but won’t come. He just looks at me, like he’s deciding. Weighing his options. Should he stay here with the Jersey Guy, or should he go with his kidnapper? When the Jersey Guy sees his dog has been dyed blue, he’ll call the cops, and it will be all over the Brightleaf Daily News that someone vandalized the Jersey Guy’s dog. Me and Mavis will go to jail. Mavis will be cleared, and I alone will rot in prison forever.
The garage door is all the way open. I turn and start sprinting towards my car. I am busting my butt to get my keys out. My hands are shaking, and my brain is in full throttle freak-out mode. I pull out my sunglasses, shoving them on my face, keeping my head turned away from the scene unfolding behind me.
The Lexus begins to back out of the garage. I can’t look. I won’t watch. I reach my car and open the door and am shocked when Floyd hops up onto the front seat. I turn to look back at the Jersey Guy’s house. His car has backed out all the way onto the street, with one long brown tire mark going down the driveway. Then the Jersey Guy drives away.
Floyd looks at me expectantly, panting, his tongue lolling out, with a huge grin on his face. He knows he was playing me back there. I pull a dog biscuit from the glove compartment and hand it to him, my heart still beating through my eardrums, and say, “You did good, Floyd.”
6
The Gynecologist
I stand in my bedroom, wearing only my bra and underwear, debating what to wear to my doctor’s appointment today. I decide against a dress because when they ask me to take off my shirt for the mammogram, I’ll have to take off the entire thing. So I opt for a shirt that buttons up the front and a skirt, just in case.
I am paranoid of hidden cameras. I don’t really believe that a female doctor would have hidden cameras for depraved reasons like a man doctor might, but mainly to catch women stealing stuff, like alcohol prep pads. Those are handy. I think women in general just like to snoop—to open drawers real quietly, look inside and close them again. My own curiosity is kept in check by the fear that there are probably hidden cameras everywhere.
I read on the Internet once that a lawyer had hidden cameras planted in the toilets at his office. Recording from inside the toilet. I wondered what he did with those videos. Like come
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