Cucumber.

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So.

The other night it’s dinnertime and all four of us, Miss Carol and me and Cupcake and my little brother, were moving around in the kitchen getting dinner ready.

In truth, only three of them were actually doing anything meal-wise. I wasn’t.

And Cutter cruises in, impatiently awaiting his treat train.

Dude, he says, looking plaintively up at me.

Dude, I say, you got another seventeen minutes.

He wuffles and  slinks by me, his ears down and disappointed.

I hate you, he says, quietly- if I had thumbs, I’d get my own, he spits up at me, as he moves back out into the living room to wait until 6:30 when all manner of sugar-shock goodnesses burst his little system.

Tug wakes up just long enough to call me a dickhead.

Thanks buddy, I say, and Tug lays his big head back down for another nap.

I shrug and keep doing whatever it is I’m doing which certainly isn’t meal-making stuff as it swirls around me and then, promptly at 6:30, Cutter is sitting and staring up at me.

Now, boss?, he says, his tail sweeping a wide arc of carpet.

Now, my little buddy, I say. Your patience is marvelous and admirable, I say.

Cutter just looks at me, his tail furiously cleaning the same furiously cleaned arc of carpet, and hisses at me- fuck all that, he says, get me my cucumber.

He makes me giggle so I do it, but while I’m skinning his cucumber it all the sudden occurs to me that when I buy a salad at the Farm Fresh my cucumber slices are unskinned. I can eat the dark skin.

I stop for a second, resting my forearms on the sink. Behind me Cutter growls and from the couch Tug shifts just long enough to call me a dickhead again.

Miss Carol, I croak.

Do you realize? And I tell her the whole skinned/unskinned thing.

Doesn’t matter, Miss Carol says. Cutter gets his treat skinned.

Yeah, Cutter says, and head-butts my leg.

Hurry up, he says.

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