Housekeeping · Writers Write

The Thief Within

When I was a child, my family took a road trip to Canada. Along the way, my dad had the car serviced.

The mechanic pointed to an apparatus under the hood. “What’s that?”

My dad said, “The air conditioner.”

“Hey Ralph! Come get a load of this. This guy’s got an air conditioner. Bet you feel like a fool for spending money on that?”

The air conditioner in my minivan went out this week. In San Antonio or Sauna Antonio, if you aren’t indigent and living under a highway overpass, your car has an air conditioner. Panicked that destitution would surely follow, Bacon led a convoy to a garage owned by a friend of a friend. Too late for business hours, we left my Mommy-mobile in front of the overhead door under a security camera.

Panic never pays. While we were gone, Lilly, the bird killing schnauzer, helped herself to an unsecured cheese pizza. Let me rephrase that. The dog ate her weight in cheese pizza. We came home to an empty box neatly propped against the leg of the kitchen table and a dog wider than she is tall.

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