When I got back the other day I took LoLa out to get the mail and so she could pee and poop.
Halfway down the driveway, LoLa stopped and sat.
Jesus Christ it’s hot, she said.
I tried not to laugh.
LoLa hates it when I laugh at her, but her voice coming out of something so little and chubby is just funny. She sounds like I imagine a Madge or a Marge would sound- kinda like she’d spent a lifetime drinking whiskey sours and chain-smoking Marlboros.
LoLa, I said, it’s not that hot and we’ve only walked about a hundred feet, and besides, you’re a Chiweeny- you’re part Mexican, you’re supposed to love the heat.
She cocked her head and looked up at me, squinting against the glare.
I’m also mostly Dachshund, which is German for I hate this fucking humidity, she said.
I stifled a smile.
I don’t think it means that, I said.
In my case it might, she said, tell me again why you brought me out into this hellhole?
LoLa, you’ve been cooped up in the house all day and I just thought you’d need to pee and poop, I said, and we need to get the mail.
LoLa looked down the driveway.
Soooooo, she said, you brought me out of my air conditioned comfort for mail I don’t care about and can’t read and to do things I don’t need to do right now.
And I had to admit it, she had a point.
Go it alone dickhead, she said, and then take me back upstairs.
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