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12:42 p.m. - Wednesday, Jul. 16, 2003
Henry's an Idiot
Yesterday evening when I arrived home from work, Laetitia greeted me in the living room. I called to Henry, but he didn't come. I looked for him, in the bedroom, in the walk-in closet, in the kitchen, calling all the while. He would not come and could not be found. "He got out of the house somehow," I was thinking to myself; "I left him outside this morning ... he's dead somewhere in the house ..." But on the floor next to the bed lay the books that had been on the desk when I left. I got on my knees and looked under the bed, calling Henry's name. In the shadows, a white tail batted the floor.

"You idiot!" He had crawled under the bed, undoubtedly during the violent thunderstorm through which I had driven to the train station that morning. He had crawled under the bed, and because of a steel crossbar on the underside, had been unable to turn around and come back out. He had been stuck there all day. He had peed and created a god-awful mess. I had to take the mattress off and stand it up against the dresser so that I could lift up the box spring and frame enough to allow Henry to escape. He was unhurt but very thirsty and tired.

"You friggin' idiot! . . . Poor Henry."

Sometimes when I come home I think, I almost hope, that I might find Henry or Laetitia dead. They are both old, for dogs. Henry is about 14 and Laetitia about 16. They are both neurotic, although Henry is the worst of the two. They are both pains in the ass. I love them both, but I can't deny that my life would be easier without them. That's why sometimes I entertain this secret hope that I will come home to find that one of them has, painlessly, peacefully, died in his sleep. I would feel at once sad and relieved.


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