by Martin McConnell
“Where the hell are you?”
I stomped through the house, checking under every bed, in every closet. She had a way of disappearing for hours at a time. I moved to the kitchen, where, as usual, Tom was playing on his iPad.
“I don't know where that stupid dog ran off to. She needs to potty, and it's raining outside. Too smart for her own good.”
“I bet I can find her.” He didn't even look up. He probably wasn't listening. Men have some kind of autopilot communication that runs when they aren't interested. Tom could have a whole conversation and not remember a word of it.
The iPad beeped to some catchy little tune. Guess he won some tokens, or gold, or whatever it was on that game. He dropped it on the table and stood up.
“Are you even listening?”
“Yeah. I'm gonna find her right now.”
He turned and walked across the kitchen.
“I'm pretty sure that she's not in the refrigerator, Tom.”
The crinkle of a cheese wrapper came from the fridge, followed by the familiar jingle of my Jack Russel's collar bell from behind me. She ran straight past, doing her little stand-on-hind-legs-and-dance maneuver, prepped to catch a morsel of the synthetic plastic cheese product.
“See? She's always in the refrigerator. She just doesn't bring her body.”
His fingers landed gently on my cheek, and his kiss on my forehead before leaving for work.
And the dog's gone missing again!
Latest version of this, a little tinkering to tighten things up (even more) from my other social outlets.