writing doodle - Zero for the lack of a title

Three minutes and counting until my next shift started and I’d barely staggered through the door unshaven and unprepared to face the world.  If Sarah had been working at my usual coffee place this morning, I wouldn’t be pushing the margin quit so closely.  Sarah has never pushed me to the head of the line, but she and I have a telepathy about coffee and she knows when I need an extra shot of espresso or two to jump start my morning.  It has never hurt that when she sees me, she starts my order ahead of time.  Who the hell gave her a Monday morning off anyway?

“Well Zero, you look like shit,” Manny said.  He glanced at his watch and tapped its face to emphasize exactly what time it was.  Until about a year ago, he had more wild weekends than anyone I knew.  Since he got married, and who would have ever guessed that would happen, he assumed I’ve taken up his mantle.  I hadn’t but I did drag it around with me from time to time.

“Yeah, well mornings are God’s way of punishing his children for having a good time.” I didn’t believe it, but I’ve never been a morning person and this morning in particular hurt like hell.                                                                                       

“Long night?”  He smiled as he took a sip from his own coffee cup. 

“Oh, yeah.”  I rolled my chair away from the desk and sat heavily.  Before placing my hands on the keyboard and opening the morning litany of e-mail messages from my boss, I closed my eyes and tried to remember if anything the night before had been worth it.

“Doesn’t look like it was a long night in a good way.”

“When Carol said she was coming over Saturday night after Hal’s bachelor party with something that was guaranteed to keep me up until dawn, I was thinking one thing and she was thinking something completely different.”

“And she was thinking?”

“That I’d know how to handle a bitch in heat.”

“That could be fun.”  A year ago he might have smirked or made some lascivious comments.  Now he seemed to retreat into the mists of time and get a small, satisfied smile.  Rat bastard.

“No. She meant a real bitch in heat. She brought me the puppy she begged me for six months ago.” And Carol gave me back everything else.  Clothes, cheap ass jewelry, a picture from an art fair.  She went to a florist, bought a beautiful bouquet of flowers and then microwaved them to make her point.  It was over.  Again. 

“What are you going to do with it?”

“Probably keep it. But now I’m regretting that I didn’t give her a real dog like a Rottweiler or a German shepherd.”  No.  I had to get her one of those purse dogs so she could be just like her friends.  The beige pile of fluff was a Chug, part Chihuahua part pug and weighed all of seven pounds.  Most of that was teeth.  None of it slept last night.

Last night the dog whined, cried, peed on my rug, and ate the throw rug in the kitchen. Well, maybe she didn’t eat it, but it lay in several heaps this morning.

“Does she have a name?”

Sure.  Pain in the Ass.  Garbage Disposal.  Chewing Machine.  Ankle Bighter.

“Princes Ann-Margaret.”  Did I really say that out loud?  It wasn’t like I named her.  Maybe I’ll just call her Pam.