The Weekday One Hundred

“Let’s get a dog,” said my wife.

She sat at the kitchen table with her mother, our permanent houseguest.

“It’ll be fun,” she continued, sipping from her glass of Chardonnay.  

But I wasn’t listening. I was watching my mother-in-law struggle with her plastic pill cutter.

It was her daily ritual – place the tiny pill inside the cutter, lower the lever without enough force, and watch the half-cut pill scoot across the table before ending up in some dark corner of our kitchen.

I knew any adopted dog would find those wayward pills and overdose in a week.

“Great,” I said.