Talk to the Paw

I bought Goblin a stylish carrying bag that is so effective at cloaking her presence that, on Wednesday, I was able to smuggle her aboard the Metroliner. Dogs are not typically allowed on Amtrak, a nonsensical prohibition considering that the typical passengers-overweight businessmen who bellow and howl into cellphones-are far more intrusive than any dog could ever be, even if it were gnawing on my face.

The good news is that am now able to take her everywhere I go. The bad news is that, when I do so, it appears as if I am having earnest conversations with my gym bag.

Speaking of conversation, it has been asserted by some that the advent of television and other modern media are killing that traditional art. It is clear that those people do not listen to morning drive-time radio, every station of which is based upon the model of endless chatter among a group of wacky baboons who are overly impressed with themselves. While trapped in a two-hour morning commute yesterday, I scanned the dial like an obsessive Lieutenant Uhura, looking for actual music. Instead, there was only station after station of moronic giggling; the only thing that appeared to separate them is what the giggling was about. I felt as if I were reenacting the last scene of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, where the woman ran around and around trying to find another normal human.

She failed spectacularly.

At least I have my bag to talk to.

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