I'm at the ER. I'm tired. I've been dealing with knuckleheads for thirty-three hours now, with five hours to go. I just brought a girl in who claims somebody ran her over then pulled a gun on her. There isn't a mark on her, no tire treads, no road rash, nothing.
who allegedly pulled the gun, I just found out, is in the waiting room.
She claims that somebody pulled a gun on her then jumped under her car.
My phone rings.
Saint Misusmorse: There's skunks in the yard.
Me: It's three o'clock in the morning, I'm surrounded by gun wielding lunatics.
Saint Misusmorse: It doesn't matter, there's six skunks prowling around the birdfeeder.
Me: We need a "skunkin" dog.
Saint Misusmorse: What is a "skunkin' dog?"
Me: A dog that kills skunks.
Saint Misusmorse: And where do you suppose I get a "skunkin dog at three in the morning?"
Me: Catch one of the skunks, kill it, tie it to a four foot length of
rope. Bring the dead skunk to the dog pound. Drag it in front of the
cages. Whichever dog barks loudest is our "skunkin dog." Use the bolt
cutters I have in the garage, snip the chain - not the lock, that's hard
and take him home."
Saint Misusmorse: Bring home some mothballs. The phone goes dead.
And that is NOT how we acquired Mr. Wilson!
I think this place is making me crazy. Good thing the Mrs. is used to living with a crazy person.