Sunday, February 21, 2010

Not Following Through

All right. I couldn't do it. I could not leave The Pony unattended last night while I went to pick up #1 at the bowling alley. I planned to. But I couldn't. I could not bear to think about The Pony sitting in the basement of the Mansion while I was driving down the dark country road through the woods full of deer just yearning to jump out and crash through my windshield and leave The Pony all alone past his bedtime with Picker H gone to the auction, and past the maximum-security prison where 2684 inmates were busily tunneling out with sharpened spoons to run over the river and through the woods to the Mansion to lure The Pony outside as a hostage. Nope. Not me. I couldn't do it. I made him go with me.

The Pony was not happy. He was all set to stay alone. I think it was going to be a rite of passage for him. To be alone in the Mansion where things go creak in the night, where HM has seen a headless figure standing beside the big-screen TV, where lost objects mysteriously appear after they've been missing for weeks. The Pony was chatty and hyper as I lectured him on how to behave while I was away. But he planned on staying.

I called #1, who said his bracelet expired at 8:00, and that he would be out shortly after that. I killed some time. I prepared to leave. But The Pony was weighing heavily on my mind. I just couldn't cut the apron strings last night. The Mansion is too isolated. It would take Grandma 40 minutes to get there if he had to call her for an emergency. I could not, in good conscience, take a chance on something happening to prevent me from getting back home in a timely fashion.

The Pony sulked, but he came with me. I think he was secretly relieved.


Jeri Landers said...

I love this, you are hilarious! I must read on, this is good stuff....

Hillbilly Mom said...

You should have been here a couple years ago, when my husband called me from the east coast to say that he was two houses down from the home of Betty, the famous author who just died.

What he meant was, he was two houses down from the house of Katharine Hepburn, not exactly an author, not exactly 'just' dead.