“You want to ride along, Sandy? We’re going to run a few errands.” The Geezer should have known better than to ask that! Does the economy stink? Do politicians lie? The answer isn’t yes, it’s HELL YES!!!!
Anytime I get the opportunity to load into the truck, I’m ready. Nothing but good things happen when I’m navigating for the Geezer. If he takes me without bringing Mrs. G. along, I get to ride shotgun. For you uninitiated in auto slang, that’s front seat, passenger side, window. Folks wave to me and I bark back. It’s great fun. I’m sure they don’t mistake me for Mrs. G. She’s good-looking as far as human females go, but pales in comparison to my magnificent beauty. When pictures aren’t available, I feel I must be more totally honest, than modest.
Unfortunately, I was relegated to the back seat today. The term for being exiled back there is flying tail-gunner. Mrs. G. went. That’s not all bad because the Geezer puts the back seats down giving me more space to move around. I still can navigate by sticking my head in between the front seats. Another perk connected with riding in the back is that— if I rest my head on Mrs. G’s shoulder, she’ll continue to rub behind my ears until I fall asleep, or she does. Neither one of us stay awake on long rides, but she has a tendency to snore by the time the car backs out of the driveway.
The first place we went today, was the bank. I like the smell of money that’s there and the ladies that work inside. I have them trained really well. As soon as we pull up to the drive through, I stick my head out the driver’s side window. The Geezer always opens it for me as we approach. My command to the girls is two sharp “Ruffs.” They immediately fetch me at least three treats. If I want more, I simply sit up in the back seat and swing my front paws up like I’m conducting a band. That’s good for at least two more….. Well, there is one lady who never responds. Some humans just aren’t trainable. You know the deplorable mental capabilities of many of that species. That’s why the old cliché is about horse sense, not human sense. And, heavens, equines aren’t that bright.
The next stop was to get gas. Normally that’s boring. Not so today. Edgar and Edna, two friends and former neighborhood canines were sitting in the bed of a pickup truck that was stopped on the other side of the gas pump. Gosh its great to see old friends. It was one big gab session. My humans and their humans were laughing and talking as I greeted my old buddies. “How do you two like your new digs?” I asked.
“They’re okay,” Edgar said, in a typically reserved English Setter manner.
“Oh they’re wonderful! Magnificent! Just simply superb!” You have to understand Edna is very social conscious. Her lineage was “accidental” that being part Cocker and part Poodle. What does that make her, a Cockepoodle? Crockapoodle would be more accurate. She’s the queen of hyperbole.
“Now Edna, don’t embellish. They’re just nice.” Edgar scratched a flea under his chin. “See, we still have those rascals.”
“Yes, but we have a three car garage, a garbage disposal in two sinks, four bathrooms, and a swimming pool.” Edna was trying to impress.
“That is cool,” I said, “Anything else you have at your new place you didn’t have in the old neighborhood?”
Edgar studied for a few seconds before saying, “Roaches.”
Some folks are born to convert highs into lows.
Our last stop was one of my very most favorite places. I call it the Parking Zoo. The Geezer calls it the mall parking lot. There’s no better place to do some human watching, and there’s nothing more interesting to do when we take one of our rides. We parked and Mrs. G. left the car. I slid between the front seat backrests and took her seat, which was still warm as I plopped my butt down.
The Geezer asked, “Sandy, were you invited?’
I gave him my, Get real, peon, look.
“Okay, okay. But, get back in the rear quickly when Mrs. G returns.”
“Sure, sure, quick as a bunny.”
“Fine, fine,” he said. The old boy doesn’t know sarcasm unless you hold up a sign. He put the windows down half way. That lets me see out without having to look through finger and nose prints. “That far enough?” he asked.
“That’ll do,” I answered.
About that time the first specimen strolled up the pavement in front of the car. It was a man from the human sub-species, concedius-arrogantus. He had a bright green golf shirt on that had a stripe across the shoulders the Geezer called mauve when I asking him. He had enough grease on his hair to lubricate the skids used to move all the stones that made the pyramid at Giza. The man looked around, looking for someone, looking at him. His head was held up and back, his facial expression was like that of a human smelling a full discharge of flatulence. You know, the Bill O’Reilly type.
The next sighting was a full parade. It was a Reproductus-prolifitera. The lady in question led her brood of eight stair-step girls toward the stores, their butt cheeks swaying in time with mama’s. All wore blonde pony tails that swung to the opposite side their from where their rears rotated. It was a precision drill team in training. I mentioned to the Geezer, “That prolifitera is attractive. And, she has a cute rear.”
“That’s why she has those eight ducklings following her tail,” the Geezer editorialized in a knowing manner.
About that time, a man with a pot gut, dirty shorts, and a tee-shirt that didn’t make it down over his naval, (his belly button pushed out like a flag) came from the opposite way the parade was going. His legs looked like pipe stems supporting a basketball. He hadn’t shaved for a couple of days. Or taken a bath. Or used deodorant. Or scrubbed his teeth. Hey, I can’t help it that my nose is sharp. The “T” had “Every woman’s dream,” printed across the front. I scoffed, “See what’s on that tee, Geezer? I know what the dream is. Nightmare on Elm Street.” I recognized his genus as Grossis-slobovian. Both the Geezer and I exclaimed together, “He looks just like Michael Moore!”
I was watching the slobovian get into his car, when the Geezer whistled. “Get a load of this one!” I turned my head and my jaw dropped, dog slobber decorating the front seat. “Is it?” I asked.
“Yes it is, Sandy!”
“You see them, but not so…developed.” I shook my head and rolled my eyes. “A real Fattass-humongu-elephatanti,” I added in reverence.
“No, but you’re close.” The Geezer looked me square in the pupils.” That’s a genuine, Fattass-humongu-whalus.”
As the specimen approached, the sun seemed blotted out by its shadow and vibrations from impact tremors made the car creak. I swear that’s true. “Is it male or female?” I asked in fear and awe at the same time.
“Sandy, I have no idea.” He studied the hulk filling the roadway aisle in front of us. “Well, it could…but, then…I think…then again…” The Geezer repeated in awe, “I have no idea.”
There was a tapping on the passenger side window that snapped our heads around and returned us from fantasy land.
“Who wants a hot dog?” Mrs. G. asked. The Geezer always says that woman can send you right to heaven.