Bushington’s Escape

     You got out of the car after our joyous ride to drop Mommy off at the dentist.  Mommy pets you.  We were gone for five minutes, but you love goin’ out’a the house, me rolling down the window, your nozzle and tongue outside.   We get home, I shut the ignition, you get out’a the car, and I take you, Bushington, to the mailbox and say:

    “Bill, junk mail, junk mail, bill, greeting card, advertisement, and . . .   What the . . .  Something for Bushington?  What?   . . . Why?   What kind of a moron sends a letter to a dog?  Numb skulls.”  

    Your tail is wagging.  Must be something you saw; maybe a squirrel or a deer, or something.  I take you inside, put the junk mail in the recycling bin, give you a treat, take out my check book, open Excel on my laptop, and start paying my bills.  Your leash comes off, I give you a Milk Bone, and you stare at me with those trite, “poor me puppy eyes”.

     I say, “What?   You already got a treat,” and get back to paying my bills.   After half-an-hour, the bills are paid with $3,425 left for the mortgage payment, health insurance, car insurance, and miscellaneous costs.  We’re doing well.  I lift the bills I’m about to put in the mailbox and there’s the letter to Bushington.   I laugh, open it, and read:

“Dear Mister Bushington McMuff..” 

     This must be really important if it’s for you, Bushington,” and you look like at me with hope in your eyes as you wag your tail.  Well, I go in the kitchen, open up the door under the sink, and toss it in the trash.  Then, the phone rings and it’s The Misses.  So, I’m about to pick up Bushington, when I notice the trash is out from under the sink and pushed over.   It must’ve been lopsided.   Nothing fell out, so I pick up the trash, put it under the sink, and pick up Bushington, but something’s under his collar.   I inspect it and it’s the credit card with Bushington’s name on it.   But how could you . . .?

      I put the card back in the trash (under the sink) and Bushington and I go on a ride.   I pick up my wife at the dentist and you’re happy.   We all drive home and my wife puts the freebies from the dentist (floss, toothbrush, mouthwash, etc.) away and goes upstairs for  a nap.   Then, I go back to my computer and Bushington’s looking by the door under the sink.  

*

     Suddenly, I hear my daughter unlock the front door, come in, and I hug her, and ask how her day was.   Then, I hear a noise from the kitchen; a seemingly insignificant bang.   So, I go back to the kitchen and the door under the sink is open, the trash is knocked over, and food (from the trash) is on the ground.  But how?   So, I sigh, get the broom and dust pan from the closet to clean it up, clean it, and put the trash under the sink again. But, I take the trash back out (from under the sink) and realize Bushington’s letter isn’t there.  So, I ask Kristee if she took it and she says no.   She doesn’t even know what I’m talking about.  

      So, I search around and find it by Bushington’s food bowl.   It doesn’t make sense.   Suppose you (Bushington) did push over the trash, how would you get the letter over by your bowl without it getting it wet with saliva? How would you open the door under the sink?  But out of curiosity, I decide to take the letter by your food bowl and read all of it aloud:

“Dear Mr. Bushington McMuff:

Congratulations!!   You’ve been pre-approved for a Skymiles MasterCard with a $5,000 Credit Limit.  In fact, we have your credit card included in this letter, but it won’t not be activated until you sign the back of the credit card and call the activation number.  We hope you decide to take advantage of this limited time offer.

Sincerely:

Joe Maud”

    You’re tail is wagging; wagging fast.  

    “But, why?   What do you want that you don’t have, Bushington?   I mean you got limitless food, clean water, no medical bills, we buy you toys, we play with you.  What else do you want?”

     So, I decide to put this letter and card in the shredder, so you won’t do anything stupid like buy a female dog.  And as I’m about to push start on the shredder, the phone rings, so I leave the letter and card in the shredder to answer the phone

     “Hello?” I ask. 

      “Hello, this is Jane Gelena from Smithfield Travel Agency.   Is Mr. Bushington McMuff there?” she asks.

I sigh.  

      “What’s this in reference to?” I ask.  

      “Well, Mr. McMuff recently inquired about booking a vacation,” she says. 

      I look at Bushington, but while I’m looking at him, I notice something green in his mouth, so I place the travel agent on hold, and pick up Bushington.   I force him to open up his mouth and find the MasterCard.   I smell it.  Maybe it smells like meat and that’s why he wants it, but it just smells like plastic.   I go back to the phone

     “Look, Eh, Bushington had a change of heart.   Bushington, you’re not going ‘cause you don’t have a job and we’re not paying for it.   We’re not paying for it.”

     After fifteen minutes of talking, I get the travel agent off.  But, our phone continues to ring:   Cruise lines, spas, time shares, a bunny ranch, and all kinds of places keep calling us.  We had a family discussion, but neither my children nor my wife admitted to sending these postcards and Bushington gave his puppy eye look.  

     Then, the phone rings again.  

      “This is Dan from the Department of Motor Vehicles returning your call.  Is Bushington there?”

       “The DMV?   What?   What do you want?  What do you want from Bushington?” I ask.  

       “No, no.   You got it all wrong.   It’s not what we want from Bushington,” Dan says.

      “It’s not?   Then what’s it about?”

       “It’s about what Bushington wants from us,” Dan says.

        I look at Bushington and I ask, “What?  What do you want, Bushington?   What the heck do you want?”

      Dan tells me Bushington wants to apply for a Visa and find out if his American driver’s license are valid in other countries and I think to myself where?   Why? Where does Bushington want to go and why?

     We changed our phone number and forwarded Bushington’s mail to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, but one time, a credit card company still got through, me, my wife, and my kids were out, and you answered, and that’s how you, Bushington, escaped.