Florida Snippet # 3423: An elevator conversation

I’ve always maintained that if you want to get rich you should study hard, become a dermatologist, and set up shop in Naples, Florida, where the sun shines brightly year-round on a sea of older folks with money and skin to burn.

As a blue-eyed person who never wears sun screen — I know I should, I always promise I will, but never do — I see mine every six months for a full body scan.

I had my regular appointment  this morning. Everything checked out fine but I did have had six of those brown thingies frozen off of various body parts. 

The elevator I was riding to the lobby from the third floor stopped at the second floor, and a well-dressed elderly gent wearing a straw fedora and oversized sunglasses stepped on. His skin, I noticed, was unnaturally smooth, almost translucent. Unusual for a man and a sure giveaway on a woman that she has had lots of work done on her face.

“That Dr. ____” saved my life," he said, indicating the name of one of the doctors who works on the second floor.

Wow,” I replied. “You must have had something terrible.”

“Oh no, I’ve never had any problems.” he said. "But whenever I find a new spot, I call and she takes me in the same day.” 

“That’s great service,” I said.

“Yes. I’ve been here 28 times in the last six months.”

The door opened in the lobby and and we walked to the parking lot together. Our cars were next to each other. His was a Maserati convertible. 

He got in, waved goodbye, and drove out ahead of me. 

A dachshund's plea

Me in happier days, before Tom Dryden tried to starve me
to death, with the stuffed dachshund Santa brought.
Even though he is stuffed, he is smarter than Billy Ray,
the Dryden dachshund who, without warning, disappeared.

My name is Rupert. I am, as you can see, a dachshund.

My biological mother was a bitch. My father took off before I was born.  Two-and-a-half years ago I was adopted by Tom Dryden and his wife. 

I am posting this message to Tom Dryden's blog to let his readers, who may be under the impression he's a nice guy, know that he is anything but. He is trying to kill me. Specifically, to starve me to death.

It started on Sunday and I can’t understand why this is happening.  I thought he liked me. Heck, he always said he loved me. How could I have been so wrong? 

Being of German descent, I am, I freely admit, a stickler when it comes to schedules. I like my life to run like the German Federal Railways — on time, to the split second. That’s especially true when it comes to mealtimes. 

Animal trainers and nutritionists say it is important for dogs to dine at the same time every day, to "stick to a schedule." I have always striven to do that but, being eight inches tall, I can’t reach the kitchen counter to fix my own meals and have to rely on Tom Dryden to  measure out the half-cup of kibble (Salmon & Rice) I eat twice a day, pour it in a bowl, take it out to the lanai, and place it on the floor. Tom Dryden was always supportive, serving me precisely at 7 a.m. and 4 p.m. 

But on Sunday morning, breakfast was served an hour late. To the minute. The sun was already up. My stomach, by the time the bowl was finally set in front of me, was growling loudly. I considered growling loudly myself but decided against it since I didn't want to be accused of being grumpy. I assumed Tom Dryden was having a bad day but made sure, when he tried to pick me up after the meal and place me on the sofa next to him where he was reading, that he knew my displeasure. 

The same thing happened later in the day. Dinner was a full hour late, to the exact second. I was so weak with hunger I could barely make my way to the lanai.

Yesterday was a repeat of Sunday. 

My fear is that mealtimes will become later and later and, eventually, stop altogether.  I now realize that is what must have happened to Billy Ray, the dachshund who was living with the Drydens when they brought me here. He kept getting thinner and thinner and one day, simply disappeared. Now I know why. 

I don’t have access to the phone and if I did, the person on the other end would most likely have trouble understanding me. Luckily, Tom Dryden left his MacBook on the floor, and is in the shower, so I can pound out this message and post it to his blog.

Can one of his readers call the ASPCA or some other social service agency and report Tom Dryden for animal abuse?

Thank you and God bless.