“Benny, do you still love me?”
“In response, sweetheart, I’ll answer your question with a question. Once there was this kid, let's call him Rupert, who asked Santa for a puppy, and knowing he’d be good all year, he was certain he’d find a puppy under the tree on Christmas morning, therefore, to save money to buy things for his soon-to-be pet, he worked all summer—mowing lawns, pulling weeds, washing neighbors’ cars, until one day he cracked open his piggy bank and took a wad of cash to Pet-World, where he purchased food and water bowls and a medium-sized bed, because he knew puppies wouldn’t stay little forever, then hid the stuff under his bed, because if his parents found out he’d talked to Santa about a puppy, they would sabotage his plans since his dad was allergic to animal dander, but his dad didn’t just have an allergy, but would actually go into anaphylactic shock if exposed to fur and dander, especially dog fur, so had he known that, he wouldn’t have accepted a puppy from a lady in a parking lot who was giving them away—for free—saying the runt was the last in a litter of eight, which was his lucky number, and he wouldn’t have taken the pup home, who wouldn’t have jumped in Dad’s recliner…for just a second—but apparently long enough, and when Dad sat in his favorite chair, his airway wouldn’t have closed and the ambulance driver wouldn’t have gotten in a wreck while rushing to get Rupert’s dad to...” Benny paused to glance at Glenda, fast asleep on the couch, “...my question is, do you think Rupert jumped the gun?”
Benny smiled and hopped up to silently moonwalk and perform celebratory jazz-hands. No answer was always the right answer.
No comments:
Post a Comment