“Went off without a hitch,” he says. “Well, almost.”

::::

Unlike my father’s, Bonnie’s basement is finished. Her late husband was a contractor and he put in the carpet and drywall himself. There is a small bar, a pool table, and a large sectional sofa surrounding a TV. The couch is covered in blankets and graced with a plump pillow.

Murdock, Lassie, and Archie are all circled around the pool table, gazing beneath it. At some point the three of them had shed their tuxedos.

I lean down on my haunches and peer under the table at what appears to be a large rodent. It takes me a moment to realize the rodent is, in fact, a dog.

Poor Chester; half his fur has fallen off, his eyes are soft blue orbs, one of his ears is gone — just gone — his tongue droops out of the left side of his mouth, and his little red wee-wee hangs limply from its sheath.

I watch as he walks forward, hits one of the leg posts of the pool table, turns around, and walks directly into another one of the leg posts.

I cringe.

“Why are you guys just staring at him?” I ask.

Meow.

“You guys are playing a game? What game exactly are you playing?”

Meow.

“You’re playing tag?”

Meow.

“Chester is It?”

Meow.

“He’s not very good? Well, I wonder why. Maybe it’s because he can’t see and he can’t hear.” And he probably wishes he’d died three years ago.

Meow.

“It was not his idea.”

I gaze down at him and say, “Just promise me you’ll be nice to him while we’re here. Remember we are guests.”

Murdock barks.

“I know, buddy. You’re nice to everyone.”

I give his big ears a rub and notice for the first time that his snout is red and raw where the duct tape had been pulled off. “Sorry about your nose, Big Guy,” I say, giving his big black nose a kiss.

He smiles and wags his tail.

“Okay, now where is Gretchen?” I ask.

Lassie leads me over to the back corner, where there are two dog beds. Gretchen is lying in one of them, asleep. She more or less looks the same as Chester, and I suppose when it gets to that point, it can’t get much worse. The only difference, she is wearing a small little diaper.

Meow.

“No, you cannot start wearing one.”

Meow.

“She can’t control her bowels. You are just too lazy to walk to your litter box.”

Meow.

“What’s a GILF? Nevermind, I don’t want to know.”

I tell him that I don’t want him within twenty feet of her.

I make him pinky promise.

He does.

:04

“What was the President doing here?” asked the Deputy Director of the FBI. “That’s what I want to know.”