Traffic is heavy. There is a blind dog in the passenger seat of my vehicle, emitting strange and exotic smells.
The dog’s name is Marigold. We call her “Marigold the Magnificent.” Or “Marigold the Marvelous.” Or, if she’s chewing another pair of my reading glasses: “Marigold the Maniac.”
We have traveled a few hundred miles. I have to make a speech at a private get-together tonight. The audience will include a very famous politician. I am more than a little nervous.
Also, I haven’t told anyone I’m bringing a canine with me. This gig was booked long before I rashly adopted a blind animal who needs me 24/7.
I’m hoping they allow coondogs at the venue.
I arrive at my hotel. It’s a nice joint. Art Deco interior. The woman clerk looks at me funny when I waltz to the front desk with a purebred hound.
The clerk is aghast.
“Excuse me, sir?” she says. “Is that a dog?”
“Is this a trick question?” I say.
“We don’t allow pets.”
“She’s not a pet.”
“What is she?”
“Look,” I say, “they told me
I could bring my dog when I called ahead and booked a pet-friendly room.”
She crosses her arms. “I’m sorry, sir, but nobody told me about this.”
“It hurts being left out, doesn’t it?”
It takes some doing, but we finally get things straightened out. The manager is called. He says it’s no big deal. Then I pay a pet deposit. Bada bing, bada boom. He’s glad to have our business.
Although, honestly, Marigold still holds a grudge against the clerk. She decides to let the disgruntled woman know exactly how she feels by making some Art Deco on the hotel grass.
Our room is fancy. It comes with all the trimmings. Huge beds. Fat pillows. Soft towels. Robes so thick and plush you can hardly get your suitcase closed.
I work on my…