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The annoying crap that happens in life makes a great story

July 24, 2012

What Max did. Before. Not recently. What he did recently was more annoying, and makes for a better story.

So the other day, I’m working at home–which is good because I’m just recovering from a stomach bug and still don’t feel great. I’m buried–seriously buried to the point where it’s figuratively hard to move my arms and legs because of the weight of all the work I haven’t gotten to. I’m on my first of four calls–a lot for a Friday.

And there, outside my window, in front yard where he doesn’t belong, is Max the Wonderdog.

Max used to dig out under the fence every chance he got. We have a large assortment of crushed stone and pavers at various points of the fence line to prevent him from digging.

Now, he’s an old man, so he’s changed his approach. He broke through the gate.

So there he is standing outside while I’m on a call. I go outside and use the tone–the one you use with dogs so they know who’s boss–and tell him to get in the house. He stops, wilts a little, takes two tentative steps toward the house, then bolts the other way.

Normally, I’d leave Max to himself. He’s got to come home eventually, because this is where the food is. But Max isn’t an ordinary wonderdog. He’s terrified of storms. When there’s a storm, he hides under the bed, in the closet, behind the door–any place to get away from the noise. Unless the door opens. Then he bolts into the rain like the lunatic dog that he is, and you get soaked trying to get him to come back in.

And a quick check of the Doppler Radar 5 Million on the Internet showed storms coming. And we’re not that far away from a major road. I took a call on my cell while walking the neighborhood looking for the dog.

If I suddenly say something inappropriate in a very harsh tone, it’s because I found the dog and I need him to stop so I can get him.

Fortunately, my boss is an understanding woman. At least until I told her that Max scratched kill on the closet door. Then she got that uncomfortable inability to articulate people get when I tell them about that, and before they see the picture.

Max eventually came home, but it kind of put a pall on the rest of the day. It was one more irritating thing in an irritating day where I wasn’t feeling that awesome anyway.

Now that two days have gone by since Max’s sojourn into Who want to go to the dog pound? (a new reality show I’m sure he could win), I see things a little differently. It’s a good story. And it’s potentially useful in a future work.

So maybe, when annoying things happen (like Max standing next to where my head is in bed and panting as loud as he can at 3 am), I can smile and know it’s all gonna help me write a hell of a book some day. I probably won’t remember that, but it’s a nice thought.

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