If this is what it takes, let's get on with it; he has that troublesome novel and, so far as I can see, two short nonfiction projects which seem to give him some pleasure. I have definitely not cast my lot with a rancher, some sensible individual who has sheep or goats or, ah, me, cows to herd; by any account a sensible person. But I suppose it makes sense that I should cast my lot with someone who is interested in telling stories and writing books about such arcana as American Literature and, are you ready for this, a rock, which is what obsidian is. I say it makes sense in that kind of tortured irony by which something other than herding sheep or goats or cows or even horses makes sense.
Well, bring it on, I say. Boss tells me, assures me it will bring me back to my younger days so far as agility and energy are concerned. He has some strange looking pictures that purport to be of my insides, and some dumb blood panel sort of thing that he had to get done when he was recovering. I could tell he was all right when he decided to get out of that dumb hospital. I could have told him that I have the equipment to get him back to work again and into his projects.
For his part, he has promised me there will be no sharing rooms with those farting Golden Retrievers when I last had to stay away from him.
It will be good to see him back on his game, even if it is only herding words. A dog has to make do, you understand, and you must realize that it is one thing for me to think it impractical that he chooses to herd words, but I'd better not hear any comments from you guys.
Understand?
Okay. I'm set for some dumb ultrasound thing Monday, that would be the 30th of August, and whatever it is they do to dogs to get them rid of their thyroid which they didn't have much use for in the first place on the 31st.
Then he'd better watch out; we have work to make up.
