December 23rd, Sunday
Dad and I went to the diner for breakfast today. I had pancakes with strawberries and whipped cream, and Dad had something called the Lumberjack Special, which came as no surprise. My father thinks he is a wild man of the woods now, because of all the wood chopping and splitting. Oh, and the flannel shirts, too.
Anyway, we were happily eating our breakfast and talking about what we were going to make for Christmas dinner; whether we were going to go traditional or do something different. Mom always made amazing Christmas dinners: turkey, homemade stuffing, etc. Well, I said, maybe we need to start a new Christmas dinner tradition and make festive nachos. I said that Dad said I was the one who needed to move on from the past, so it was my contribution to our future. Dad thought it was a wonderful idea, so that is what we're going to do! Yuletide nachos. I can't wait. I suggested the red and green chips, for a more festive touch. Dad said, Now, you're cooking with gas! (He says old school crap like that a fair bit.)
We were just about to start talking about possible side dishes, when there was a squeal of tires and a yelp outside on the street. Everyone in the diner rushed to the window, including Dad and me, and we saw a black Labrador lying in the middle of the road in front of a red Mazda pick up. The dog was wagging its tail and whimpering a bit, and the truck's driver was crouched down beside him. It was horrible. I thought the dog was going to die right there in the street and that the guy from the truck was going to have a nervous breakdown, but then a green jeep stopped and a man got out, followed by a girl who looked around my age. They went over to the dog and after some talk, the man from the jeep put the dog in his car and he and the girl got in and drove off.
The driver of the pick up came into the diner and Alf, the owner said, "Tough luck, Bruce. Dog gonna be OK?"
And the guy—Bruce—said, "Yeah, think so. Vet said he might have a broken leg, but it might just be a bruise. Damn dog ran straight out in front of me."
Alf said, "Wasn't that Lucky? Jenny's dog, from Bartholemew Road?"
Bruce nodded. Then he ordered a coffee and left, looking worried and pissed off at the same time.
I told Dad that Misty said a new vet had just moved here, and that must have been him. I didn't mention the part about his having a 14-year-old daughter.
Dad said that the dog should have a new name, because he sure wasn't lucky today, but then I said maybe he was luckier than ever, and that if he'd been called Jet or Chester, maybe he would have been killed, and Dad said, you have a point there, Myles.
Thing is, I meant it. Maybe that Law of Attraction book is starting to rub off on me a little.
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THE PECULIAR LANGUAGE OF LLAMASHumor
* A Wattpad Editors' Pick (Spring /2019) * *NOW UPDATED EVERY WEDNESDAY* Fourteen-year-old Myles is having a rough time. Not only has his mother run off with her female yoga instructor, but his dad has moved the two of them to a remote island to liv...