Inspector Clouseau:
I thought you said your dog did not bite!

German hotelier:
That is not my dog.

—

Day 3: I am lying in bed. I think I’m asleep, something the brochures seem to recommend for Covid, but I won’t know for sure until the Garmin overnight data updates.

And then I realize that yes, I AM asleep, because the buzzing phone just woke me up.

I have a phone text of the Upmost Importance. Which is this.

At first, I am concerned. I certainly don’t want to annoy the neighbor, and there’s nothing worse than an uninvited dog. Except maybe clams. Who came up with the idea of eating poor, unsuspecting clams? And who creating the expression “clam up”? A ploy to silence the little critters as they marched toward death? And how did Clamity Jane get her nickname when she mostly hung out in the Wild West? Yes, I realize Old Town Scottsdale is the new Wild West, but I can only imagine how much they charge for clams.

I sort through the options in my vermin-addled brain. Maybe we could build a higher fence. Allow our dog to go out in the yard alone only when on a long leash? Just stay inside when not under supervision? It’s all so complicated.

And then it comes to me.

I don’t have a neighbor. Or a yard. Or a dog.

We live in an apartment. We have no yards. And I do not have a dog. And the area code is Canada. I live in Arizona. That would be a very ambitious dog indeed.

We have a couple of squirrely cats, but they would never lower themselves far enough in the animal kingdom to be mistaken for dogs, although I’m sure they wouldn’t mind being misidentified as squirrels. When a dog happens by and they’re looking out the window, their little tails fluff up like a feather duster. Hilarious, but not particularly threatening.

Using a mixture of AI sleuthing and the same common sense cavemen used to turn back unsolicited rocks being thrown at them back in the days of spotty cell service, I came to the only possible conclusion:

THIS CALL MUST BE A PHONE SCAM!!!!

I have read about these online. I have seen the flyers posted on telephone poles. And I get three or four a week. But never when heavily drugged. Phone texts had not been invented back in the days when I was heavily drugged. Yes, I would occasionally get messages hidden in songs played backwards, but I think those have held up over the years as being authentic. Do not try to tell me Paul isn’t dead.

This evil person had interrupted my healing slumber for deviant purposes. I needed my revenge. Something biting. Something clever. Something sure to make him see the error of his ways and repent, verily. But I’m very sick. That isn’t going to happen. The best I could muster:

—

“Hi, neighbor! So sorry about Fifi. being a French poodle, she can be a bit, well, Qui a de multiples partenaires sexuels, so she is on the prowl a lot. I am sure that neither you nor I want to see her making babies with Roscoe, your all-American mutt who seems to have adopted OUR back yard as his personal bidet.

But you’re in luck! Fifi is fairly fluent in French, so if you could just ask her politely I’m sure she’ll leave you and Roscoe alone. If, perchance you do not speak French, just let her get really close to your feet and say “oui oui!” She will know what to do.

Sorry to cause you this inconvenience and I hope this in no way will disturb our daily ritual of completely ignoring each other as we go back and forth to the mailbox.

—

But then I asked Google how bad it was to respond to spam. Google assured me it’s very, very bad, because then they know you’re a real person. This in itself felt reassuring, since I’ve always wondered if I was a real person. Validation could be mine!

It also said this would result in exponentially more spam to follow. Exponentially is way too hard to type. So I dutifully sent the message to spam, to live a tortured life for 30 days with offers of untold fortunes and impending jail time over unpaid parking fines.

I guess you can’t win with spammers. And I DID have some fine SPAM sandwiches on the farm with Uncle Dutch when I was a kid. What to do? I did the only thing I COULD do.

I went back to sleep.

And dreamed of Fifi peeing on the suede shoes of some nameless guy I’ll never meet.

—

The good news: Day 3 is winding down, and this round of Covid feels like it might be Covid Lite, one of those trendy brands created just in time for football season.

The bad news: Mo seems reluctant for running to resume. I proposed tomorrow if I take it easy. She countered with Never.

The good news: Negotiations have begun! In the words of the prophet Guy Charles Clark, It’s only time, and only time will tell.