Squirt Sets Mooner Straight; Train Later Derails


So. I had plans to take all of the women in my close circle of life to dinner. Each Friday before Thanksgiving, I try to make a display of my appreciation for a years-worth their patience and support. This Friday-before-turkey-day event has become a special occasion that I look forward to with keen anticipation.

The whole thing started as an offshoot of my psycho therapy sessions a few years ago. “Mooner, you crazy fuckball, you have got to learn how to demonstrate your appreciation to a woman in some way other than to marry her.” Then Dr. Sam I. Am-Johnson, my first ex-wife and psycho therapist, said to me, “And that drunken speech at the dinner table last Thanksgiving is not what I mean.”

Anyway, it seemed fitting that were I to pick the Friday before, I could sap some energy from the sentiments of Thanksgiving and shore-up any weaknesses in my program. It has turned into a huge success. I get to shake my Etch-A-Sketch to a clean slate just before the holidays, leaving lots of room for me to scratch my trail of accidental indiscretions.

I was planning where to take the girls this year when Squirt and I were hanging basil plants in the root cellar. We have a separate section for hanging herbs as opposed to the area for other things. We dry our herbs without roots to keep the dirt from contaminating the drying leaves. It’s almost impossible to wash dried herb leaves. Not that I haven’t tried.

Anyway, I asked Squirt, “Where would you like to go to dinner Miss Squirt? This will be your first Mooner Appreciates Women dinner. You want to choose?”

Just asking the question gets me all the display of appreciation I need from Squirt. She’s running in little figure eights, wagging her tail maniacally. She looks like a wind-up toy with an over-tight spring.

“Oh, Mien Gott, Bwana Mooner. Que me dijo choose le cafe?”

“Of course you can choose. That’s a way I can show you how much I appreciate you.” Might as well start early, right?

When Squirt does her serious thinking, the thinking you’d call contemplation, she sits with her head cocked sideways and closes her eyes. Her breathing slows and becomes a series of deep sighs. Like what you do when you go to sleep. Her one untethered ear flaps and flops like the damaged wing of a spastic bird. She is a seriously cute little shit.

I did finally get bored with watching all of the cute thinking and went back to work. I was checking the status of the dried, smoked jalapeño peppers when Squirt came out of her trance.

“I got it. Auf gehts zur Vivo. Everyone likes their margaritas.”

“I know,” I told her. “But still no Carta Blanca beer.”

She gives me her best stern look and tells me it’s not about me. She’s right.

“You are correcta-mundo, my little mixed-breed bundle of wonderment. Let’s drink our Carta Blanca now.”

We did, and that would be when everything started to unravel. Manana, y’all.

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