and the BP Station by Rick Watson
Jilda took my dog Buddy to see her mom the other day which is fairly
routine. I've come to under stand that he and I both are creatures of
habit. He likes riding in my truck because he's up high and he can see
everything. When he rides with Jilda, her car is lower to the ground and
has leather seats. Jilda loves the feel of the leather, but when Buddy
is with her, he whacks his head on the dashboard every time she hits the
breaks because the seats are slick. Every time she starts to break, he
assumes the breaking position, he's back peddling before the laws of gravity
take control but then it's whack his head hits the dashboard and the next
moment he's on the floorboard scrambling to get back on the seat.
| It's routine for him.....now
where was I??? Oh yes.....on this occasion, she decided to run by the BP
station for gas before heading to her mom's house. She filled up the car
leaving Buddy to keep the vehicle from being carjacked. When she got back
to the car, Buddy was really excited barking and he was making all kinds
of puppy sounds that continued after she get back into the car. "You
sure are glad to see me," she mused but Buddy kept on with his excitement.
When she laid her purse on the floorboard, he went in. She practically had
to drag him out of her purse.
When she told me the story, I smiled and asked if she had bought him a Slim
Jim. "O. K., she says, what does that have to do with my story?"
I told her that every time I go to the BP with Buddy, I always buy him a
Slim Jim. He just KNEW there was a Slim Jim for him somewhere in that purse
and by George, he would not be denied.
Yes we're all creatures of habit. The hardest habit for me to get over was
eating lunch at my Mom's house. Before my Mom had heart surgery and the
strokes and the broken hips, she always cooked Sunday lunch. On any given
Sunday all of the kids and grand kids would usually be there and more often
than not, there would be neighbors, friends, and casual acquaintances who
had heard that you could get a great meal at Granny's house.
Mom lives with my sister and she does get to spend every other weekend at
her own house, but the days of cooking Sunday dinner are long over. It occurred
to me as I was relating Jilda story about Buddy that I was not unlike him
in that every time I go to my mother's house I start rummaging through her
refrigerator, and cabinets looking for food. We are indeed creatures of