The Old Routine

At last all the bags are unpacked, the goodies handed out, the Venetian chandelier awaits uncrating. Back to the Old Routine.

For me, Wiggles, it’s ancient sneaks and baggy duds as I haul the shovel out of the rear of my truck and fill sand back into the holes Theo Fannybrice has dug all over Fort Funston. So far, he’s killed two gophers and made it almost to China. Yep, it’s me, a dog, and a shovel. The advantages to this system are that the pugnacious and moody Mr. Fannybrice gets an astonishing aerobic workout and I get to read in the car until the un-digging.

And when I hit the homefront, I’m shoveling three squares – or rounds – a day into the Lord & Master. Mind you, our dining room table sags under the weight of random papers and crockery, so there’s no eating done there. Rather, we take our repast in the L&M’s bedroom; he enthroned in his lazyboy and Theo and I upon his bed. This means I have to cut up my spouse’s food before serving it. My perpetual toddler, as I think of him. In fact, I do wrap him in a hairdresser’s coloring apron (Sally’s Beauty Supply – cheap & effective), conveniently waterproof to repel all drips and spills.

For Hot Pants, Life As She Knows It means the go-go hustle of her big time life as a New York Editrix –  barking orders, slashing copy, snapping peons into line. All the while she’s dressed in the chicest of attire, down to her high heels and boffo handbags. She returns to her East Side digs where a home cooked meal, courtesy of Muggins, awaits her. And sweet Little Pancake stands ready with kisses.

Let’s face it: I, Wiggles, am the Before and Hot Pants is the After. From sand to skyscrapers, from exercise gear (in which I am not exercising) to couture, from cooking to cooked for.

But I get to sleep in. Did I neglect to mention Theo sleeps until at least ten in the morning?

Fair trade.

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