The Butcher has today and tomorrow off (for any of you trying to schedule in a seduction of him), which are his first two days off in about a week and a half.
Last night, he was home by 10:15–after he’d spent most of the evening sitting around here watching Season Two of the Wire.
This is not like him.
I know he’s bummed still about the car and trying to show contrition, but still.
I’m going to charge the dog with the task of cheering him up.
Of course, this will be made more difficult by the fact that the dog still does not know our names. I could sit here for a half an hour telling Mrs. Wigglebottom all kinds of sad and worrisome things about the Butcher, tales so poignant and touching that the mere telling of them makes my neighbors tear up just to be on the same block as such heart-breaking-ness.
Mrs. Wigglebottom could listen attentively, with her head cocked to the side and her ears perked up. She could, overwhelmed by sadness, place her muzzle on her front paws and sigh forlornly. I could say, “Mrs. Wigglebottom, it is up to you!” and she would jump up and look read to go. “Yes,” she seems to say, ” I will make right this great wrong!” and I could say, “Okay, go fix the Butcher!” and point upstairs where he is sleeping and she would leap right over and lick my finger, wagging her tail with joy, like she’s just fixed every problem in the world.
Granted, it does make it nice when the Butcher is all like “Aunt B. will take you out.” and the dog follows him around for ten minutes.
Hey, guess who just wandered downstairs?
No, Mrs. Wigglebottom, not me.