I walk in the back door. Something has died.

Me: “Tweak?”

I open the kitchen trash. It’s Waste Manage-y, but not critical.

Me: “Bowie-dog?”

I scan the litter box and the carpets to make sure no one exploded.

Me: “Tweak?”

I check the fridger. The milk is old but not sour. There are eight kinds of cheese in the drawer, but even the pungent ones are on purpose. No rotting veggies, no meat papers. The oldest suspects are a handful of genetically-modified cherries from three months ago. I open the Tupperware and sniff. Probably still edible if you don’t mind Ebola.

Me: “Come on, Tweak. Life is just Ebola cherries. Where are you…?”

Tweak materializes.

Me: “Something died in here.”

Tweak yawns.

Me: “And why didn’t you take care of it before it went, you know, dead?”

Tweak squints, folds in half, tends to a personal hygiene emergency.

Tweak: “Mice are the devil’s hemorrhoid.”

Me: “AHA! I never said it was a mouse. How do you know it’s a mouse??”

Tweak uncoils from her work in the down-under.

Tweak: “What are the choices – badgers? Birds? You think this house is lucky enough to be infested by baby pandas?”

Me: “Eww. Especially if they crawl under something and die.”

Tweak: “What’s black and white and red all over?”

Me: “Tweak, no.”

Tweak: “A bamboo spork.”

Me: “You’ve crossed the line. Help me look for the smell.”

Tweak: “I’d rather eat Ebola cherries.”

Me: “That’s my joke! You can’t take my joke just because you deliver it better.”

Tweak jumps up onto the back of the couch.

Me: “Everybody in this house is useless.”

Bowie-dog slides into the dining room, nails scrabbling on the wood floor. She wags her tail and knocks over a bottle of Motrin.

Bowie: “Hi, guys! What can I ruin?”

Tweak: “My day.”

Me: “Who wants Ebola cherries?”

Tweak: “You know what died in here? That joke.”

 

18 October 2014 – “Tolerating Tweak”