Fantasy rendition of last night’s hockey game (Lightning vs. Thrashers):
The Lightning stormed nimbly onto the ice, ablaze with deftness and might, skating like they were born with hockey sticks in their indomitable fists, and sweet-talking that puck into the net, once, twice, three times! The Thrashers, try as they might, were helpless in the face of such cunning skill, and every puny shot they attempted was turned away like child’s play by the goalie, who frankly appeared bored by the lack of challenge, yawning and sipping Perrier as the Thrashers batted the puck about like blind newborn kittens. The Lightning of course won 100-0 in a glorious shut-out, and while swooping on their adrenaline high, Marty St. Louis and Vinny Lecavalier not only formulated a sure-fire cure for cancer, they also discovered viable solutions to all of the world’s problems, culminating in a peaceful, just, and equal society, where the hockey puck is the newfound international symbol of peace.
What actually happened at last night’s hockey game:
The Lightning were apparently kidnapped shortly before the game and had all parts of their brains concerning dexterity, sight, and hand-eye coordination forcibly removed by nefarious surgeons, leading to the (*sob*) 6-2 loss to the Thrashers. The team is currently recovering in Tortorella’s care.
I had just dozed off last night when Gary called out to me, “You have a visitor!” Given the time of night, I found this most curious, so I wrapped up in a blanket and wandered onto the front porch, where a golden labrador retriever was bouncing around like a Mexican jumping bean, wagging his tail so hard he almost knocked over potted plants, clearly in the mood to play. I could already tell I was going to have to deflect the “But he followed me home!” cries from Gary, who wasted no time gathering up softballs to play fetch, and they went to town in the middle of the night in the front yard, running around, playing, laughing. Being a responsible, no-nonsense adult, I did the only thing I could do: grab some sneakers and jump into the middle of the fun.
We reluctantly called the phone number on his tag, and learned that our new buddy had decided to explore the neighborhood when his owner let him out to heed the call of nature. His owner was now out of town, so we had to wait for him to call us back when he found someone to come pick up the runaway. I didn’t realize fetch was a game whose novelty never fades, but I will blame this naivety on being a cat person; if I tossed a toy expecting one of my cats to fetch it, they would give me a withering look, like “If you wanted that damn toy so bad, then why did you throw it, slick?”
He was a lot of fun, racing around the yard after the ball, and Gary picked on him when he kept bringing the ball back to me instead of to Gary. (I think the dog was just being a smartass, because the more doggy slobber there was on the ball, the more he dropped it at my feet and gave me his smug little puppy eyes). He rolled onto his back and gave me the honor of rubbing his belly, then hopped back up….break over, more fetch!
We ended up loading him into the car and driving him back to his home, where for some reason the owner’s roommate couldn’t get off his butt and drive 5 minutes to pick up the dog, and barely aroused himself to answer the door for us. I think this dog owner needs new friends; if I lost one of my cats and a friend of mine wasn’t willing to help me get the cat back safely, I assure you that individual would swiftly and immediately be cut from my exclusive circle of friends!
Back at the homestead, I was met at the door by an irrate, glowering cat perched on the coffee table, eyeing me accusingly. Don’t worry, guys; I’m still a purebred cat lady. But a dog might be nice…someday….if the cats let me.