© 2012 Aaron Atkinson

The Juice

Laura is out of town this weekend. It’s just me and the girls. By girls, I mean Indie, four years old and refined. And Lola, four months old and a little twerp. I can’t count the number of times that Lola has blatantly ignored us as we’ve implored her to stop her misbehaving. But that’s just what little twerps do.

I’ve told Laura several times that it’s time for us to put Indie’s hunting shock collar on Lola. “Light her up once and she’ll listen forever,” I’ve said a time or two.

But Laura’s opposition to this solution is as consistent and predictable as Lola’s twerpyness. So instead, we’re going to use the same spray bottle on Lola that we used on Indie as a puppy. Earlier this week I dug it out of the junk drawer and Laura washed it in the dishwasher. (After all we can’t spray dusty water at our twerpy puppy.)

I called Laura this afternoon as she was driving to St. Louis.

Laura: I told Lola to behave for you this weekend.

Me: Good. For her sake. (In jest) She steps out of line, and she’s getting the juice.

Laura: That’s what I told her. I even set the spray bottle out on the counter for you, and told her that she’d better check herself before she wrecks herself.

Me: Good advice. But I don’t think we’re talking about the same kind of juice.

Laura: What do you mean. What other kind of juice is there?

Me: Bzzzzzzz

Laura: Don’t you do it!

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