By Anne Sullivan
“I notice you’re not so cheerful about the gorgeous weather today,” I said to Sylvia when she came inside the house to eat breakfast.
“It’s bracing, I have to admit,” she said between bites of Iams. “However, I’m beginning to be concerned about May.”
“What about May?” I asked.
“It’s coming in like a lion. Will it go out like a lamb, the way it’s supposed to do?”
“That’s March you’re thinking about,” I looked up from my newspaper to say.
“That’s what I mean. Nothing is the way it should be. Things are getting out of control. You’re all bundled up. I’m not shedding. Snow is smacking me in the face when I go outside. The world is not as it should be. The only thing halfway normal is the wind, and that’s ever so much stronger than it should be. The TV said is was 99 miles per hour on Sandia Crest the other night.”
“That’s so. But you don’t realize how lucky we were,” said Little Mary Me. “We must be grateful that the electricity stayed on and we could watch TV.”
“I’m not so sure it’s all that lucky to be able to watch TV on a Thursday night,” Sylvia said, “I noticed you surfing through all the channels several times last night.”
“Thursday television is pretty dim for me,” I admitted. “I just look forward to Friday night when I can watch ‘The Medium’ and sometimes ‘Supernanny.’ I really like her. She knows how to deal with children. I wish there was a Supernanny for dogs. I know I let you run all over me.”
“That’s only because it’s apparent that I know what I’m doing,” Sylvia said with a grin of satisfaction.
“Are you insinuating that I don’t?” I glared at her.
She swiftly changed the subject. “Wow, will you listen to that wind. I’d better go out and see about Gordo. He’s so little he might get blown away.”
Letting Sylvia out involved more than opening the door, which was swiftly yanked from my hand. The porch looked like a tornado had blown through. Dog and cat beds and bowls had made their way down to the East end where they jostled with kindling and logs, tables and, oddly enough, the vacuum cleaner. (It’s got to live somewhere.)
“When I was a child I used to live on East End Avenue in Manhattan where I loved to watch the tugboats hauling strings of barges,” I reminisced out of nowhere to Sylvia, who wasn’t listening at all since she was racing about searching for Gordo, who was not to be seen.
“I can’t find Gordo,” she shouted at me as she ran by. “He’s disappeared!”
“Sylvia,” I yelled. “Stop! Gordo’s fine. He’s under White Truck.”
Sylvia screeched to a halt and returned panting to me.
“Sylvia, Gordo will take care of himself. Nonetheless I commend you for caring about him.”
“It isn’t that. I just don’t want anything to happen to him.”
“That’s very sweet and considerate of you.”
“You bet it is. I really need Gordo.”
“Good heavens,” I said in disbelief. “Whatever for?”
“For the Photo Shoot.”
“What photo shoot?”
“For the Reality Show. When Gordo gets blown away by the wind, I’ve got to have pictures. No one will believe it otherwise and besides it’s wonderful publicity. Think if it, a flying cat. I’ll be the manager of a flying cat. How cool can that be?”
“I didn’t think you wanted to be a manager,” I said in surprise. “I thought you wanted to be the subject of a Reality Show.”
“Oh, I do, but being manager will put me in a good position to make important contacts. Also to be considered is the fact that managers are important.”
“That’s true. Managers of Reality Shows are the ones who go to jail if anything goes wrong.”
“Oh,” said Sylvia. “Well, back to the old drawing board.”
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