In the morning, I howled for two hours after Einstein left for work. Eleven out of ten doctors recommend this to clear morning phlegm from your throat. Mrs. Angleton worked herself into a tizzy. She was trying to talk to her father, Papa Angleton, while yelling at me to be quiet.
"Sir Richard Cecil once said, 'the shortest way to do many things is to do only one thing at a time.' I read that somewhere." "I hate you! No, not you, Dad. I hate Meat Head. He's the worst dog in the world." Mrs. Angleton is always extra sensitive on the days her father calls, so I try not to take what she says personally. "But… Yeah, I guess." She hung up the phone and called Einstein at work, lips pursed into a thin grimace—that means she's serious or constipated. With humans it's hard to tell the difference. "Your dog's at it again," she said. "His constant barking is driving me crazy! What? Of course you don't hear him. He quits every time I call you—No, I'm telling you, he does it on purpose. What? No, I'm not being ridiculous… Yes, I know he's just a dog. Now, you listen to me Einstein... Okay, I'll prove it to you. I'll pretend to hang up. You'll see." She set the phone down on the couch and went into the kitchen where she pretended to be very interested in the contents of the dish cupboard. I sneezed and flopped onto my side to wait her out. This took half of forever. "Oh fine!" She slammed the cupboard door and returned to the phone. "I know he didn't bark but… Einstein? No, of course not, but—…I see. Well, if that's—… Don't you hang up on me! I know you have to work. No, I can't promise that. Fine. I won't call you at work unless it's an emergency. Love you, too. Bye." "Hey, genius, I understand English," I barked, springing to my paws. "If you want to fool me, don't sneak so many peeks in my direction. It's a dead giveaway." She picked up the first thing within reach—the cordless phone—and threw it. I jumped aside. The phone smashed into the wall and plastic shrapnel flew everywhere, clattering against the wooden floor.
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