Conversations With My Dog

Wherein Mr. Moles Is Banished To The Colonies

Mr. Moles saunters up to me as I come out of the garage. He’s “wearing” his ball. On his nose.

“Hi Moles”, I say, pretending not to notice.

“Does something look different about me today?”

He’s so excited he is literally prancing.

“Besides the fact that you’re wearing your ball on your nose? No.”

“Can you guess what I am? Can you, can you guess?”

This should be good. I ask him if he is running away to join the circus.

Blank stare.

“A clown, Moles. Are you a clown?”

He snorts impatiently, then tells me to try again. Before I can open my mouth he asks if I want a hint.

“What?”

“We’ve been sent good weather” he says.

“Huh?”

He rolls his eyes and tries again. “Blessed be the fruit.”

What the fuck? I indulge him. “May the Lord open.”

A plethora of barks and more prancing.

“I’m a Handmaid! I’m Emily.”

Someone has been reading a little too much Atwood. “How you get a Handmaid out of a blue ball I have no idea. But indulge me, why Emily?”

“God, you are so linear. No wonder you don’t write fiction. It’s a mask stupid. I’m Emily because I’m a convicted gender traitor and have been cast to The Colonies where I will shovel toxic sludge for the rest of eternity.”

“Um, that was a brown mask, Moles. Leather.”

“Hey, you work with what you can around here. It’s called improvising, Hemmingway.”

“Moles, why do you think you’re a gender traitor? Is this that size thing again? Mr. Moles, you are a very well endowed dog … “

He gives me a look that could kill. “While that may be true, a lot of good it does me, considering what’s missing!”

Oh fuck, this again. “Okay then, you have a good trip, be careful of the radiation.”

When I tell him Aunt Lydia is waiting with some bacon, he bounds off in search of Ann Dowd.