I barked to assure Mrs. Baxter that she had nothing to worry about—that Sparky and I would begin preparing for the Thanksgiving guests immediately. That’s how we did things back then: Preparation. And footnote puppies, when your boss has something important to say look her square in the eyes and listen. No more of this scatter-brained, tongue-out, jumping-like-you’re-on-a-trampoline frenzy every time the higher-ups have a comment or concern. Pull yourselves together. Don’t get me started. I found Sparky in the backyard. He’d been listening to Vern talk about “the absurdity of hope” through the hole in the fence. I think Sparky was grateful for the interruption. Vern, who equally enjoys talking to himself when Sparky’s not around, didn’t mind in the least. I carefully relayed Mrs. Baxter’s intel: special dinner, important people, best behavior. To which Sparky replied, “So, like, what are they having for dinner?” To the best of my ability I explained that that didn’t really matter—that we were ambassadors for the Baxter’s and it was our job to assist the guests in whatever way proved most accommodating or helpful. Sparky nodded but, in hindsight, failed to retain the gist of our assignment. To this day, I’m not sure how Mrs. Baxter’s fears ended up materializing exactly the way they did. My pal would later say the incident was nothing more than a classic case of good turkey and bad timing. In his defense, Sparky insisted he’d given Mrs. Baxter’s guests every opportunity to consume their entrees in a timely, responsible fashion. “When they didn’t,” he explained, “I scaled the table and assisted them.” At which point Mrs. Baxter poured more wine with one hand and produced a jar of aspirin with the other.
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