The car door snapped shut. I sat up, ears perked, blinking sleep from my eyes. We were parked at a strip mall in front of Einstein's work place. I saw him talking to his friend and co-worker, Ben Dover, through a large glass window with a sign that said:
Film Developed Here
One Hour Service
Ben lives across the street from us. He and Einstein are about the same age. They also both live with their parents in a basement and enjoy playing together.
After forever, Einstein exited the store with a tiny screwdriver. (Going forward, forever will always be defined as five minutes. Remember that now.) He plopped into the driver's seat and started taking apart the camera. I could think of a thousand things to do with Einstein's day off, but monkeying with a broken camera wasn't one of them. It seemed to me we both ought to go home and finish the day napping on the porch—Einstein on the porch swing and me on my wonderfully smelly rug.
"The camera is busted and there isn't any film inside," Einstein sighed. "I guess the aliens must have taken the photos."
"That's right Meat Head, aliens don't want anyone to have pictures of them."
"Oh, Great Paw Above, the aliens didn't steal the film. It's a digital camera. Get the memory card out and you'll see that it belonged to a human." I jumped into the front seat and directed him with my nose. "Here, let me show you."
"Meat Head, get off! You're smearing dog snot all over." He pushed me away.
"You need to be the positivity you want to see in this world. I read that somewhere. "I barked, jumping into the backseat, where I paused for a good shake. Particles of dirt flew everywhere.
"Great! Now, this car is going to smell like manure for months."
"I don't smell any manure," I barked. "But if you've got some, I'll be glad to roll in it."
"Stop whining and get in the back, you stupid dog. Oh, look, it's a digital camera. Don't I feel like an idiot, ha, ha."
"Restate 'I feel like an idiot' with 'I am an idiot' and you'll hit the nail on the head." I poked my head over his seat and licked his face. "It's okay, I will always love you. We're growing old together, though you're already pretty old."
He laughed, pushing me off and getting out of the car. "Quit. I need to return this screwdriver. I'll be right back. You be good."
"I'm always good."
I jumped from the backseat into the station wagon's rear where I settled onto my comforter. After taking forever inside the store, Einstein drove us home. That also took forever. He parked in front of a green house, what humans call ranch style—that means it has a porch—and got out. Einstein lives with his mother, as I mentioned before, at 567 Barry Schmelly Road, Hinckley, Ohio.
Meat Head the Worst Dog in the World will be posted here in easy to read increments. Read for oldest to newest if you haven't been following along.
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