"Alright, Blunder. Hold that pose. Nice job of looking pensive. Good furrowing."
"O.K., but Buddy?"
"I wasn't trying to look pensived or whatever. I was just waiting for something fun to happen outside. This is just how I look all the time."
"Oh, dear. How many times must I explain this to you, you great, lumbering oaf? We are to lie here and look pensive as a reflection of the Woman's current state of mind as she stands in the no-mans'-land between her old and new lives. The camera is her mirror-glass, and we are the reflections of pensiveness of her soul. It's all very artistic. Now furrow that brow. Furrow, you foul beast!"
"Umm, Buddy? She seems kinda alright, actually."
"That's because you don't gaze deep into her soul, not as I do. I stare at her for hours and relish the gentle feel of her breath on my whiskers. While she's sleeping."
"Man, that's kinda creepy. I don't think she wants me to do that. I don't even think she wants you to do that. But I guess I could try harder to see the pencils in her soles or whatever. Hold on."
"Nope, still looks O.K. to me. On the plus side, I may have head-tilted my way into a walk around the neighborhood. Yeah!"
"And yet I am the one who understands her vision. Where is my reward? Dammit!
Almost two months into being differently-employed, and I still only have them engaging in imaginary conversations every couple of days or so.
It's been a whirlwind of activity since May 1st. Daisy and Falstaff moved out of our rental house, Daisy moved across the country, Accountant Boy bought another car, Winston made a couple of new friends of the bully-dog persuasion, and I think I broke a couple of fingers while putting down a new floor in our bathroom. It hasn't been boring, I'll say that much for it.
Oh, and I'm still working on Forestry, the stupidest project to have on the needles during the summer in Contra Costa County. I have to sew in the sleeves and knit the collar, but it's slow going now that our unseasonably cold spring has given way to the normal summer. I'm also being slowed by my right hand, which has some kind of arthritic clicky thing going on. I think I injured it while painting the rental house. Of all of the things over there that could hurt me, I least expected trouble from the paint. And yet it was the paint that almost killed me. Who would have thought that a quart of enamel would be behind this exclamation: "Why the F%$K do things keep EXPLODING IN MY FACE IN THIS GODDAMN HOUSE???" But that's a story for another day.