So I show up on Christmas day to my Nephew’s house, which the family traditionally does every year. I opened the door, and there is a dog staring at me. I asked his wife (my nephew’s, not the dog’s), “You have a dog?” She said, “Yes!”
“When did you get him?” I asked. She said, September.
I then asked, “What’s his name?”
“Toast,” she replied.
“What?” I asked, I thought I didn’t hear right.
“Toast,” she replied. I had to ask, “What did you say, a few times, as I thought I heard wrong.”
Apparently one of the kids named him because he was the color of toast, which I don’t get. Especially since he is gray. I’ve never seen gray toast, even when it’s burned.
It reminded me of years ago. My parents lived in the same house for more than 50 years, so once in awhile, neighbors changed next door. This one time there was a family with a dog named Richard. Yep, Richard.
The first time I heard the lady calling out, “Richard! Richard!” I asked my mother if she was calling her husband. She said, “No, that’s her dog!”
The funny part is I never saw the lady or Richard, but whenever I was at my parents’ house, I would hear the lady calling Richard. He must have gotten out a lot. It sort of sounded like Hyacinth Bucket calling her husband Richard. It was that same tone, “Richard! Richard! Richard!”
I never saw the lady, or Richard. I don’t know why. I just never did. I guess they moved away and that was that.
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