The Adventist

It’s embarrassing, really, that she has posted nothing in almost two months. She sits at her desk in her office, inches from me, every day, and claims to be writing. You gotta wonder. It doesn’t much matter to me, as long as I get walked, fed, petted, and told I’m a good boy (which I totally deserve) at least three times a day. The space heater inches from my nose, a few treats are nice touches.

She came home from church talking about Advent, like I don’t know the waiting drill. Excuse me, but I recently “survived” Thanksgiving. Even though I was trembling outside while they bellied up to the table, plates heaping, then was physically blocked from getting anywhere near the kitchen—that mega mecca of mouth-watering morsels—then had a token piece of meat thrown out “to the dogs.” A phrase I like almost as much as “it’s a dog’s life.” You take what you get, I guess.

I’m the ace of waiting—patiently, expectantly, eyes fixed on the prize (or the hand that might deliver the prize), nose twitching, acting half-bored all casual like while my eyes are lasers. For me Advent is no four-week period. I wait in hope all year. Call me an Every Day Adventist, the high priest, the grand poo-bah of hope.

I smell meatballs. Gotta go.

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