Danny’s Road Trip
Hey guys, it’s me, Danny—your favorite dog. I’m hangin’ out just listenin’ to Kris sing a little Willie Nelson song. My human, Andrew, doesn’t get it. He doesn’t know that Kris and Willie are speaking for God. Have you ever listened to Sunday Morning Coming Down?
Andrew is off the boat . . . gettin’ into trouble no doubt. Me, I’m listenin’ to Kris / Willie Nelson.
I love to ride in cars, don’t you? Sticking my head out the window, barking at any dogs I see along the way. I can even put up with Andrew when I’m riding in the car.
So this is what I wanted to tell ya. Two days ago, Andrew took me out to his car, opened the door and told me to get inside. Normally I wouldn’t do what he wanted. But a ride in the car? So I jumped in. I didn’t know where we were going; however, as long as I could stick my head out the window, I didn’t care.
It was a Sunday morning, the roads were empty, which was a good thing because Andrew was a little the worse for wear. He had had a rough Saturday night and he was still a little tipsy. And just like in the song, we stopped by a church and we listened to the choir. It was then that I knew what Kris meant when he wrote, “There’s something in a Sunday makes a body feel alone.” Because I saw it in Andrew’s eyes that Sunday morning. It was indeed a Sunday morning coming down.
I didn’t know it at the time, but Andrew was looking for something. He had a hurt in his head, he had an emptiness in his soul. We never go for rides to nowhere, but I guess he felt he was already nowhere on that Sunday morning.
He turned to me and said, “I need a beer.”
You need more than a beer, pal . . . you need help.
We were still by the church and Andrew was wishing he was stoned.
I knew that the only thing Andrew cared about more than getting high was me. So before he could start the car and go looking for booze on that Sunday morning, I jumped out the window and took off, knowing that he would chase after me. As long as he was focused on me, he would not dwell on his Sunday morning coming down.
I’m sorry to say that he caught up with me right away. Then we went and bought a six-pack.
It was indeed a Sunday Morning coming down . . . and it came down—right SMACK on the head of my human
P.S. Now, before everyone gets all concerned for poor Andrew, I wrote this a couple of years ago. I didn’t write a new story this month because I’m on vacation. Anyway, it was me to the rescue (as usual) because after that infamous Sunday, I told Andrew to throw the TV out the window and sit down at the computer and write something about his misbegotten youth. It would be a whole lot better than bingeing on the Kardashians, which would drive anyone to drink!
Well, one thing led to another, and now with 140 short stories and four novels under his belt—almost half a million words—he doesn’t have time to get into trouble.
Nowadays on Sunday morning we go down to the local bar and sit outside where dogs are allowed and have a nice healthy breakfast with an occasional Bloody Mary thrown in. No more six-packs.
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