Lockport Union-Sun & Journal — I was in my workshop out back when I heard someone knocking on the door. It was odd because it’s rare to hear someone knock on that particular door. Why? Well … because, it just is. For one thing, it’s in the backyard; it’s simply an over-sized shed. It’s like knocking on the garage door before pulling your car inside.
I was in there trying to figure out how Time Warner was going “simplify things” by changing the channel numbers that took me eight and a half years to finally memorize. Standing outside, waiting to see me, was my dog, Maggie. I should have known it was her. She can’t turn the handle.
“S’up, dog?” I said, opening the door, totally unabashed by my play on words and carrying on with the role of hipster by making goofy gestures with my hands and fingers.
“Yeah, funny,” Maggie said. “Can I come in? We’ve got to talk.”
“Sure, but ... HEY! … leave that dead ... whatever it is ... outside if you will.”
“I got another letter delivered to the doghouse,” she started, “and, as usual, it’s a sarcastic reaction to your using me in those drivel-driven columns of yours.”
“Ouch! Well, at least someone is reading them,” I reasoned.
“What gets me,” Maggie explained, “is that all of the letters harp on the same topic: the fact that I can talk. People don’t believe it. Talking has become a curse for me.”
“And, yet, they’re writing you letters, expecting you to READ them …?!”
Ignoring the irony at the heart of my question, she went on, “All I ever hear is ‘How gullible do you think I am?’ It’s a constant theme. If I never hear ‘How gullible do you think I am?’ again ... it’s too soon.”