It Looked Different on the Model - Laurie Notaro [76]
When I recounted the story later that night about why I would be getting a ticking chunk of fungus in the mail, my husband was not exactly happy.
“You did what?” he asked me, acting like I had just turned Anne Frank in. “What if the person was an art student doing a project? What if you turned in an innocent person? And did it ever dawn on you that Homeland Security knows who you are now, too?”
“You just spent the last hour making trombone sounds with your mouth, Mr. Brain,” I reminded him. “And while I’m not Angela Lansbury, the pieces didn’t add up. Why does anyone need that many timers? You know, it’s a good thing you weren’t selling hot dogs in Times Square when smoke was billowing out of that SUV or sitting next to the guy who tried to set his wiener on fire on that flight over Detroit.”
“This is an episode in insanity!” he repeated. “They were kitchen timers! And I sounded exactly like a jazzy trombone!”
“ ‘See Something, Say Something!’ ” I yelled back. “Can we continue this in forty-five seconds? My auction for a Glenwood chrome timer is almost up.”
“You already won the Merry Mushroom timer,” he reminded me. “Why do you need two? Two in one day? Who needs two timers in one day?”
“I do,” I said blankly. “I’m starting the Patriot Act Timer Museum, if you must know. ‘Don’t Tread on My Timer.’ … Aaaaaaaand I won! Finally! This one looks cool; it has original paint and chrome, bakelite dial. There is another one that is very Art Deco, has these great tall, skinny numbers and it’s aqua, but that one doesn’t end until tomorrow.”
My husband nodded.
“Better be careful,” he added. “You never know. I might have to say something. Because I think I just saw something.”
Jenny and the French Dog
The old dog had its nose buried in the can, shoving its snout in as far as it could go to get whatever was left inside. The snow fell, gathering in a thin film on the dog’s fur, then melting just as fast on the mangy, stringy coat.
“Oh, no,” I said to my husband, pointing at the animal trying to fend for itself on a cold day in New York City; person after person passed by, and no one seemed to notice. Without a leash and clearly with no owner watching it, the dog made its way along the side of the building, sniffing for more food.
My husband shook his head. “I don’t know what you think you can do,” he said simply. “We’re on vacation. It’s not like you can roll a dog up in a dry-cleaning bag and put it in your suitcase. I know it’s terrible to see something like that, but you’re going to have to forget it. There’s nothing we can do.”
I realized he was right. I mean, here we were in New York, two weeks before Christmas, on a five-day trip that didn’t include taking care of stray dogs. Frankly, I didn’t even understand how there could be a stray dog in a city like this; did someone forget to lock the seven dead bolts on their door and the dog just wandered out? I found myself getting angry, wondering how people could be so careless. How do you lose a dog in the city?
But there it was, a large collie-shepherd mix, trying to eat rotten food out of a piece of garbage right on Bleecker Street, around the corner from the front door of the building we had rented an apartment in for our stay.
“Okay, now wait,” my husband begged. “Don’t get obsessive. Don’t let it ruin your time here. I’m sure someone saw the dog and will call the ASPCA, they’ll call the owner, and it will be back home by nightfall. Seriously. How can anyone lose a dog here?”
He was right. Someone must have realized their dog was missing and was probably looking for it right then.
“Do you really think so?” I said.
“Well, it certainly is in the realm of possibilities,” he said. The traffic light turned green and he grabbed my hand and stepped off the