Page 100 of The Witching Hours

“Yes. They come to me when I’m cleaning up the Skittles he farts everywhere.” I chuckled. “Did I mention that McDreamy is also great in bed?”

Why didn’t she say so in the first place?“Alright. I’ll go.”

“I’ll buy you birthday lunch to make up for not being there tonight.”

“What kind of lunch?”

“Campbells soup?” She never missed an opportunity to make the Campbells soup joke because my last name is Campbell.

I shook my head. “Forty is Rainbow Lodge lunch.”

“Done.” Wow, that was easy. Maybe I should’ve gone for Trulucks. “Can I trust that it’s safe to leave you alone? Are you having ice cream?”

“I hadn’t thought about it, but now that you mention it. Netflix and ice cream in bed sounds like the perfect end to the most horrendous birthday imaginable.”

“Your exaggerating again. Don’t give in to your addiction. Save up for dessert tomorrow.” When I didn’t answer, she said, “Okay. It’s your birthday. Spend the rest of it however you want. I will pick you up at eight.”

“EIGHT!?! What? Is that a joke?”

“No. If we go later, we’ll have to park miles away and be bussed in.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. It’s popular. If we go at eight, we can park within three blocks. I know a place.”

“Ugh!”

“Come on.”

“This is your evil plan to get me to go to bed without ice cream, isn’t it?”

“Don’t be silly. I’m not that clever.”

“Right. I will be ready at… see? I can’t even make myself acknowledge that Saturday mornings come with an eight o’clock.”

“They do. We’re gonna throw dirt on it and walk it off.”

“What?”

“You know. That’s what they used to tell boys who were whining about being hurt in sports. Or whatever.”

“’Kay coach.”

“Bye.”

One last thing to do before Paddy and I hit the hay. I gathered up the hundreds of dollars’ worth of cosmetics that made me look like somebody I didn’t want to know then dumped them where they belonged. On top of the cake, the dip, the pizza, the miscellaneous appetizer, etc. That simple act shouldn’t have given me pleasure. After all, it represented money wasted by a middle-aged fool. But sometimes there’s just no accounting for feelings. They are what they are.

I looked around for Paddy. He’d taken the opportunity to use the dog door and let himself out into the great outdoors of my small backyard. It was a good thing for both of us that Paddy wasn’t a high energy pooch. It might not be nice to call him lazy, but his stoner approach to life worked just fine for both of us. I leaned against a kitchen counter and cracked open a plastic bottle of hundred calorie vitamin water. I could’ve bought the same thing with zero calories, but they don’t taste as good and I’m living proof that life zooms past at light speed while we’re paying attention to stuff that doesn’t matter.

After a couple of minutes Paddy came trotting in wearing the same expression of expectation he wore whenever he thought he could trick me into thinking I’d forgotten to feed him.

“No go. I distinctly remember giving you dinner while the revelers were reveling.” He then went to Plan B. He believed that, if he managed just the right expression of cuteness, I’d give him a treat for nothing. He was right. I gave him a turkey stick. “Now let’s go find a good heroic dog movie on Netflix.” I turned out the kitchen light. “One that will give me a good excuse for shedding tears.” It wouldn’t take much to achieve that. I’m a sucker for sad movies featuring woman’s best friend.

Speaking of dogs. They have a curious inner clock that’s never wrong. I mean it keeps the right time down to the second. It’s one of life’s best mysteries. They also have an official policy of not recognizing that weekends are a thing. What that means for me is that, on Saturday and Sunday, Paddy thinks he’s worked off his room and board by filling in for the alarm that’s obviously malfunctioning. At six thirty on the nose, he barks and licks any patch of bare skin he can find exposed and not under covers.

Normally I throw a pillow at him, which he dodges thinking it’s a great game. Then I get up and do my magician’s trick. I open the bedroom door, open the dog door, close the bedroom door, and go back to bed all while trying my best to keep my eyes closed.

Today, however, the second day of being officially middle-aged, marks a marked change in routing. I follow through on the pillow-throwing ritual. No point in disappointing Paddy just because I can’t stay in bed where I belong. Today I’m making coffee instead of going back to bed.

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