Julia and Slippy
There are days that I do not feel too ambitious. One could use the word lazy, but I’m trying to be kind to myself. Last Thursday was one of those days.
I had a doctor’s appointment in Oromocto, which is about 14 miles away, so I planned to take the car instead of the gas-guzzling truck, to save a few cents, you know. Tom had parked the truck to the side of the driveway to allow me to get the car out. When I was ready to go, as usual with too many things in my hands--keys, purse, travel cup, cell phone--I went out, locked the backdoor, and loaded myself and my doodads into the car.
When I turned the key in the ignition, the only response I got was a weak clicking sound. Obviously the car was not going to Oromocto. So I unloaded myself and my doodads and moved toward the truck.
I considered, for one second, going back into the house and calling up to Tom’s office to let him know that the car was not going. However, that would entail unlocking the back door, bending over, taking my boots off, walking twenty feet. Much too much effort considering my indolent state. I stopped under his window and yelled his name, weakly. Once. No response.
Lazy Woman Yelling for Tom
I decided to text him to let him know; my cellphone was right there in one of my over-loaded hands. But it was absolutely too much trouble for sluggish old me to open my purse and go digging for my glasses. Surely I could manage if I squinted one eye and closed the other. So I sent the text, blindly, you might say, then heaved my weary bones into the truck.
Lazy Woman Sending Text
In the driver’s seat, safely belted, I was about to pull out into the driveway when I happened to glance in the rearview mirror and see Tom charging out the back door in his sock feet and jammie bottoms. He rushed to the passenger side of the truck, as I rolled down the window, thinking to myself, “Here we go. Tom all caffeined-up and over-reacting to a dead battery.”
Caffeined Man on Computer
Hand on hip, he leaned in the window and said anxiously, “I presume you mean the car?”
“Yes,” I answered. "What did I text?”
“Cat is dead.”
Slippy, Playing Dead
Without going into too much detail, I earned my well-deserved nickname, Granite, during the mourning period for our last dog, Tucker. Considering my history with pets, and my reputation around hugging and any form of demonstrative affection, it is not surprising that Tom came running. No doubt he expected to see our beloved 13-year-old cat, Slippy, dead in the driveway, and me driving down the street.
Lady Granite, off to Oromocto