In the doghouse…again

Rick is in the doghouse…. again!

Rick is our Wanna-be-Mountie, a long retired peace officer. A close up and personal encounter with a concrete truck several years back left Rick in a somewhat decreased mobility state. Not completely crippled up, but close to it. His gait and mobility is so impaired at the Debating Table at the Bakery in Rainy River, we are reluctant to let him pour coffee. He might either slop a cup of the scalding liquid in your lap or at least get a good splash on your clean shirt. When we had a full crowd around the table in pre-Covid days, it was safer as there was enough support around him to keep him from tipping over, but now with the six foot spacing all round, there is nothing to prevent him from completely up-ending. So we are quite agreeable to having him collapse onto his chair and Pickle will fetch him a cup and keep it suitably refilled.

But I digress, re the doghouse.

Rick as a couple of problems. His cell phone, forgetting to charge it and forgetting to take it with him. Not knowing how to properly operate it is a whole other set of problems. The other big problem is his pack of curs, known as the Hounds of the Baskervilles. It is bad enough when they sit in his truck and bay at full tongue at any pedestrians on the street, but they also race out his drive and terrorize cyclists not wary enough to have their vehicle up to full throttle when approaching said danger zone.

Then there is the issue of escapes. His curs never miss an opportunity to escape from his truck to check out the surroundings and being well trained as they are, simply refuse to come back when called. Perhaps they have overly sensitive feelings over being cursed out for not obeying.

During the recent cold snap his favourite truant had forced Rick to drive hither and yon searching lest the cur die of frost bite. Driving down long drives by the river did not turn up Baskerville senior. On the last long drive the un-shadowed light on the snow disoriented Rick and he hit the ditch.

“I’ll call for help!” reasoned Rick, but no cell phone. “Oh no! What to do? It’s just a short walk across that snow covered field with a frigid wind whipping up a ground drift.”

“No,” reasoned Rick. “I’ll pass out halfway across the field, die of exposure, and the coyotes will be gnawing on my carcass. Better walk on the road. $%#& Dog!”

By the time Rick reached the end of the drive, he was pretty well tuckered. He staggered to the door of an approaching pickup, just barely managed to trip the latch, and crawl up into the cab, all the time, being sniffed and slurped on by a happy to see him Baskerville Hound.

“What you doing out here in the Arctic Blizzard? I’ve been sitting at home in front of the fire with your dog. You sure don’t look after him very well. Putting him out in this cold! I was just taking him back to your place,” reasoned the good Samaritan, shocked by Rick’s lack of care and concern for his poor pet.

“Why didn’t you call me on your cell?”

Rick just huffed, still unable to speak and settled in to a semi comatose slouch knowing there would be a tongue lashing and doghouse relegation when he got home.