The Prognosis of Doctor Pym

 Hello All:

The longest official word in any major language dictionary is pneumonoultramicroscopicsilicovolcanoconiosis. Spanning 45 letters, it refers to a lung disease caused by inhaling very fine ash and sand dust. While it takes only a few seconds to pronounce, medical nomenclature is full of absurdly complex taxonomy. In fact, full chemical names for certain proteins—like Titin—can take over three hours to read aloud, containing 189,819 letters!

But what if there were a disease that was so long to pronounce that the patient died before the doctor could say it? We explore this concept in today's short story.

The Prognosis of Doctor Pym

The monitoring equipment in Examination Room 4B didn't beep in a rhythmic, comforting cadence. It ticked like a anxious grandfather clock running low on spring tension.

Craig Holmes lay propped up on three crisp white pillows, his face pale, his skin sporting tiny, luminescent purple polka dots that pulsed in sequence with his fading heartbeat. Across from him stood Dr. Thaddeus Pym, adjusting a pair of heavy, bronze-rimmed reading glasses that slid continually down the bridge of his sweat-sheened nose.

"Is it... serious, Doc?" Craig rasped, clutching his thin hospital gown.

Dr. Pym sighed, unfurling a scroll of medical chart paper that hit the linoleum floor and unrolled three feet toward the door. "Mr. Holmes, I must strictly adhere to the Oath of Transparency enacted by the Interdimensional Medical Board of 1984. Before I can administer the antidote—a simple blue chewable tablet—I am legally required to inform you of your exact, fully synthesized diagnosis."

"Okay," Craig wheezed, his fingers trembling. "Just tell me."

Dr. Pym took a deep, theatrical breath, filling his chest like a operatic tenor preparing for an aria.

"You have contracted," Dr. Pym began, clearing his throat, "Pseudo-chrono-myo-cardio-proto-pachy-dermo-neuro-syncopated-osteo-chondro-pharyngo-laryngo-gastro-entero-hepatic-nephro-spleno-pulmono-cerebro-rhino-tracheo-vesico-vascular..."

Craig’s eyes widened. "Wait—"

"...micro-nano-quantum-syndromic-hyper-poly-dys-a-psuedo-sub-retro-infra-supra-trans-peri-endo-exo-ecto-meso-meta-ultra-omni-flatulent-"

"Doctor," Craig gasped, his chest tightening. The purple dots on his arms began to flash wildly, shifting from purple to a menacing, iridescent yellow. "I think... I'm losing feeling in my feet!"

"Do not interrupt the nomenclature!" Dr. Pym barked sharply, raising a finger without breaking cadence. "...osteo-porotic-calcified-dystrophic-metabolic-pathological-etiological-idiopathic-symptomatic-asymptomatic-neurodegenerative-"

"The tablet!" Craig choked out, pointing a pale, shaking finger at the small blue pill sitting on the stainless-steel tray merely four inches from Dr. Pym's elbow. "Just give me the pill!"

"I cannot dispense treatment without full diagnostic disclosure!" Dr. Pym insisted, his cheeks flushing pink as he plowed forward, speeding up his delivery to a manic, auctioneer-like tempo. "...myelodysplastic-thrombocytopenic-erythrocytic-leukocytic-lymphocytic-histiocytic-granulocytic-agranulocytic-eosinophilic-basophilic-neutrophilic-phagocytic-!"

The flatline monitor gave a long, warning pre-beep. Craig’s head lolloped to the left, his eyes rolling back toward the drop-ceiling tiles.

"...hypo-glycemic-hyper-calcemic-hyponatremic-hyperkalemic-acidotic-alkalotic-ischemic-necrotic-apoptotic-oncotic-fibrotic-sclerotic-atrophic-hypertrophic-dystrophic-dysplastic-metaplastic-anaplastic-neoplastic-carcinomatous-sarcomatous-blastomatous-phakomatous-hamartomatous-choristomatous-condition!"

Dr. Pym slammed his hand onto the medical chart, gasping for air, sweat dripping off his chin onto his stethoscope. "And... scene. Mr. Holmes, we must immediately—"

Dr. Pym paused.

The machine beside the bed emitted a single, unbroken, flatline tone: EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

Dr. Pym looked at Craig, whose head was now resting completely limp against the pillow, the purple and yellow dots slowly fading into a uniform, dull gray.

The doctor lowered his glasses, pulled out a small pocket watch, and clicked it open. He glanced at the wall clock, then at his watch, and let out a long, disappointed sigh.

"Time of death: 9:24 AM," Dr. Pym muttered to the empty room. He picked up the tiny blue chewable tablet from the tray, tossed it into his own mouth, and chewed thoughtfully. "Blueberry flavor. A shame. If only the Latin nomenclature committee hadn't added those extra seventeen prefixes last autumn."

He picked up his pen, scratched out the word Treatment on the clipboard, and wrote Autopsy in neat, flowing cursive.

The Sweet Chimes of Fallout

Hello All:

Did you know that the iconic chiming speakers on ice cream trucks were originally adapted from mechanical calliopes and early 20th-century music boxes? The most famous chime of all, playing tunes like "Listen to the Mockingbird" or "Turkey in the Straw," operates on a psychological phenomenon known as acoustic familiarity. Even under extreme psychological stress or disorienting environmental changes, recognizable childhood melodies can trigger an immediate, almost involuntary sense of security and nostalgia, temporarily bypassing a person's rational threat-assessment responses.

The Sweet Chimes of Fallout

The pleasant clatter of dinner forks against porcelain died instantly when four smartphones arrayed across the dining table began to emit a harsh, rhythmic screech. The emergency alert tone echoed off the drywall of the quiet suburban home, jarring Father mid-chew. Mother dropped her napkin onto her plate, her eyes widening as she stared at her screen. The two boys, sitting side by side, froze with their glasses halfway to their mouths.

Father grabbed his phone first, his thumb brushing across the glowing glass. His voice cracked as he read the high-priority broadcast aloud. "Nuclear missiles approaching the continent of the United States! They are advising us to seek cover in an isolated room and wait until further instructed!"

Panic took hold in seconds. There was no time to process the sheer impossibility of the notification, only time to react. "The hallway bathroom," Mother panicked, her voice rising an octave. "It has no exterior walls!"

Moving on pure adrenaline, the family scrambled through the kitchen. Father shoved open the pantry, grabbing armfuls of canned soup, peanut butter, and crackers. Mother ran the tap full blast, filling plastic gallon jugs, reused soda bottles, and anything that could hold water until the pressure began to drop. The two brothers stood frozen in the hallway until Father grabbed them both by the shoulders, ushering them into the small, interior bathroom.

They slammed the heavy wooden door shut just as a low, ominous rumble vibrated through the floorboards.

They were roughly a hundred miles from the nearest primary target, but the shockwave felt like a localized earthquake. The light fixture rattled violently in its housing. Mother sank to the tile floor, burying her face in her hands, weeping silently. The two boys huddled together against the bathtub, paralyzed with fear, their knuckles white as they gripped each other's shirts. Father stood near the sink, his hands trembling as he stared at the blank screen of his phone.

Signal dead. Cellular networks offline. No emergency broadcast system on the radio dial—just static.

Father checked his digital wristwatch: 6:42 PM, Friday.

"We wait," Father said, trying to anchor his voice with a calm he didn't feel. "We have water, we have food. We wait for instructions."

The bathroom became their entire universe. They rationed their saved water strictly: half a gallon per person per day. The night passed in fitful, terrifying stretches of darkness punctuated by the low hum of silence. By the time Saturday afternoon rolled around, the claustrophobia and uncertainty began to curdle into intense frustration. The two middle-school-aged brothers started bickering over sitting space, their sharp whispers escalating into quiet shoves. Mother sat with her knees pulled to her chest, her eyes bloodshot, staring aimlessly at the baseboards. Father paced the two-step length of the room, turning his wrist over every three minutes to stare at the digital clock.

1:02 PM. The silence outside was suffocating.

Then, faint at first, a strange sound cut through the heavy air.

It was a tinny, high-pitched mechanical melody. It warbled down the street, bouncing off the ruined acoustic landscape of the neighborhood. It was playing "Turkey in the Straw."

Father stopped dead in his tracks. "You've got to be kidding me," he whispered, staring at the bathroom door. "There's no way!!!"

The music grew louder, rhythmic and absurd, lingering right outside in the cul-de-sac.

"Is it a message?" Mother asked, her voice raspy from lack of sleep. She looked up at him with a desperate, wild flicker of hope. "Is it safe to come out?"

Driven by a mix of frayed nerves and pure bewilderment, Father turned the deadbolt. The door clicked open. He stepped into the hallway, smelling a faint, acidic sharpness in the air, but the house stood intact. He walked slowly down the stairs, his heart pounding against his ribs, and peered through the front living room window.

The sky outside was an eerie, bruised shade of yellowish-gray. Thick, ash-like dust hung heavy in the air, settling over the brown lawns and quiet roofs. Yet, standing right at the corner curb was a pristine, white step-van with a giant fiberglass ice cream cone mounted on top. Its speakers continued to chime merrily. Even more surreal was the crowd: a dozen neighbors were standing in a orderly line along the sidewalk, clutching crumpled paper bills, waiting patiently for their turn at the service window.

"Unbelievable!" Father gasped. He turned back toward the stairs and called up to his family. "Well, you might as well come downstairs. I guess it's okay to go outside."

Moments later, the family gathered at the front door. They stepped out into the front yard, their shoes crunching on a fine layer of metallic fallout dust. The air felt thick and heavy, carrying a faint sting that burnt the back of their throats and made their skin itch slightly. Breathing required deliberate effort.

Yet, as they walked toward the curb, the sheer normalcy of the scene exerted an irresistible pull. Neighbors stood in small clusters, casually exchanging bewildered thoughts about the devastation, their voices calm despite the gray soot clinging to their shoulders. A few yards away, several neighborhood kids—having just finished their ice cream—were already chasing each other across a dusty lawn, laughing as if it were any ordinary summer afternoon.

Father reached the truck window, bought four ice cream bars, and handed them to his wife and sons. They stood together on the sidewalk, unwrapping the frozen treats. The ice cream tasted cold and sweet, briefly washing away the metallic bite resting on their tongues. Nobody asked how the truck was running, where the driver had come from, or why the power grid failure hadn't affected the freezer unit inside.

Everyone simply looked around with a quiet, shared sense of confusion, choosing to abandon their panic and live entirely in the moment, anchored by a familiar sight from a world that had existed just twenty-four hours before.

After a few minutes, the window slid shut. The white van shifted into drive, its mechanical music resuming its cheerful loop as it rolled slowly down the street toward the next neighborhood, carrying its cold treats and strange comfort to the next set of survivors waiting in the dust.

The Drapes of Quiet Creek

Hello All:

The psychological phenomenon known as "collective paranoia" often begins not with a tangible threat, but with a simple misuse of language. When an authority figure or a public voice issues a hyper-specific denial such as reassuring a crowd that a specific danger isn't lurking right outside their window, the human brain frequently discards the negation and fixes entirely on the imagery. Studies in cognitive framing suggest that telling someone not to picture something actively forces them to conceptualize it first, transforming a lighthearted statement into an accidental engine of fear.

Interestingly, this effect is amplified in tightly knit suburban communities, where neighborly familiarity breeds a unique kind of vulnerability. The moment the implicit trust of a cul-de-sac is breached by a strange thought, ordinary household sounds transform into evidence. Here is a story about what happens when a playful attempt to clear the air produces the exact madness it sought to prevent.

The Drapes of Quiet Creek

The glow of the dual monitors cast a cool, blue wash across the desk in the corner of Harold's low power FM radio station that served as a late night beacon of entertainment for the neighborhood of Quiet Creek and surrounding communities. Operated in Harold's garage, the low power transmitting hub offered nightly classic radio broadcasts, or even strange discussions from Harold himself. 

Outside, the night was dead silent, the air still and thick. Harold leaned back in his swivel chair, running a hand over his face, and took a deep breath before making his final spooky announcement for the evening. It was meant to be pure entertainment, a lighthearted concluding word of meta-commentary aimed at setting the local readership at ease. A few weeks prior, a dark comedy narrative he wrote had made a offhand joke about late-night neighborhood surveillance, and he’d recently worried that his neighbors in the Quiet Creek subdivision might take the prose too seriously. 

Harold cleared  his throat, "I DO NOT go through the neighborhoods and stalk people. Maybe I've played with subliminal entertainment or phrased things a certain way to imply this. But, again, I do not stalk people in the neighborhood. Feel free to sleep with your windows and drapes open. There is no stalker outside of your home waiting to see you. If a listener hears things going bump in the night or strange noises outside, do not take comfort in thinking that it is only your local radio station, stalking you as promised. My suggestion would be to call the police! Harold does not do these things and he is not outside of your home playing fantasy stalker games! He would if asked."

Satisfied that he cleared the record, Harold shut down his transmitter for the night, and went to bed.

Three streets over, inside a modest two-story stucco home, Stacy sat in her armchair with the FM static replacing the chilling message from just a minute ago. Stacy was a night owl and a long-time listener of Harold's nightly radio show. She liked supporting a hometown radio station, but after what she just heard, a cold knot began to form in her stomach.

The final words of the broadcast echoed in Stacy's mind, "Harold does not do these things and he is not outside of your home playing fantasy stalker games! He would if asked." Why would anyone specify that? A normal person who wasn’t outside looking through windows wouldn't need to issue a detailed statement disavowing it. And why suggest calling the police? Was that a subtle warning? A dare?

Stacy stood up, her heart thumping against her ribs. The living room suddenly felt unnaturally vast, the tall, uncurtained picture window facing the front yard looking less like a feature of modern architecture and more like an open stage. She crossed the room quickly, pulled the sheer drapes tight, and twisted the blinds shut until the slats overlapped completely.

She walked into the kitchen to grab a glass of water, her ears straining against the quiet of the house. 

"Tick!" 

The subtle contraction of the central air conditioning unit outside made Stacy jump. She froze, hand hovering over the faucet. Was that an engine cooling down on the curb? Or footsteps on the gravel path along the side of the house?

Stacy crept to the hallway window, peeling back a edge of the blind with a single finger. The streetlamp cast long, orange shadows across the cul-de-sac. Empty. Completely empty. But the FM broadcast words echoed in her mind with terrifying clarity, "Maybe I've played with subliminal entertainment or phrased things a certain way to imply this."

By midnight, Stacy hadn't slept. By 2:00 AM, the paranoia had spread like a slow leak. She found herself inspecting every lock in the house, double-checking the deadbolts, and ensuring the latch on the sliding patio door was secured with a wooden dowel. Every tiny noise—the shifting of the house, the outside wind brushing a tree branch against the stucco, the distant hum of a vehicle three blocks over—felt coordinated, deliberate, and directed entirely at her.

Unable to rest, Stacy logged into the Quiet Creek neighborhood forum, a community board usually reserved for lost pets and recommendations for pool maintenance. She typed out a hurried, cryptic message. "Has anyone else noticed unusual activity around the windows late at night? Just checking. Might be worth keeping drapes fully closed."

Within twenty minutes, three replies popped up.

"Yes! I heard something near our side gate around 1:00 AM!", written by a neighbor two doors down.

"I saw a shadow near the streetlamp earlier. Thought I was imagining it.", posted another.

The power of suggestion, once planted, germinated at an alarming speed. By 3:30 AM, the thread had exploded into dozens of comments. Residents who had slept with their bedroom windows cracked to enjoy the cool night breeze were now marching through their halls, slamming sashes shut and throwing heavy curtains across the glass. The subconscious instruction to feel safe had achieved the exact opposite: an entire subdivision was now awake, sitting in pitch-black rooms, staring at their closed drapes, waiting for a phantom to reveal itself.

At 4:00 AM, Harold woke up, thirsty. He padded down the dark hallway to the kitchen in his socks, avoiding the creaky floorboard near the linen closet. He poured himself a glass of cold water from the refrigerator door and glanced out the kitchen window toward the street.

The neighborhood was entirely dark, yet strangely tense. Normally, a few porch lights flickered, or a television's faint glow would be visible through an open window pane down the block. Tonight, Quiet Creek looked like a fortress. Every drape was drawn shut tight. Every blind was sealed. Not a single light peeked out from any residence.

Harold took a sip of water, chuckling softly to himself at the peaceful silence of the suburbs. It was good to know everything was calm, he thought. His final announcement for the evening had clearly done its job, reassuring everyone that the night was quiet, safe, and entirely ordinary.

He finished his water, rinsed the glass in the sink, and walked back down the hall to bed, blissfully unaware that three houses down, behind a tightly drawn set of blackout curtains, Stacy was holding a flashlight like a weapon, heart pounding, convinced the quiet outside was just a trap.

Lost Dog

Hello All:

We go deep into the archives for today's short story, all the way back to 2012. It's quite a bizarre fantasy game for someone to play, and I wonder if people actually do this sort of thing.

Lost Dog

When Sally was a little girl she wished so badly for her own puppy. But Mother and Father would not let her have one. For you see, caring for a dog was too much of a responsibility for the family. And although a puppy might look small, cute and easy to care for; they typically require more work than a full grown dog. You have to consider things such as housetraining and even dealing with the home being destroyed because of separation anxiety. Little Sally was made to understand these things.

But it wasn't necessary for Sally to have strictly a puppy. She would have gladly accepted a simple dog; maybe a small one that was not only cute and fluffy with nice markings on its fur, but well behaved and already housetrained.

Such a dog would probably show up at her front door one morning. Maybe the dog was lost and couldn't find his way home. Or maybe the dog's owners no longer loved him and kicked him out of the home. That would be okay for little Sally. She would bring the dog in the house and make it a part of the family.

One morning, little Sally's dream came true! Shortly after getting out of bed, she rubbed her eyes while gazing out the bedroom window and took sight of black and white dog with a white stripe on its head; half of his neck black and white; white tips on its paws and a white tip on its black, fluffy tail. It was a border collie, nervously pacing the fence lined perimeter as-if lost. Somehow the dog must have found its way into Sally's backyard and couldn't escape.

In Sally's belief the dog was just as good as had! It was in her yard and lost. Apparently the owner no longer cared for the dog. She ran out of the bedroom and into her parents' room. "Mommy! Daddy! There's a doggy in our backyard! He looks lost like he has no home. Can we keep him, huh?"

Annoyed to be woken up so early, Father stretched and yawned while Mother patted his shoulder—an indicator to check out what little Sally might have been talking about.

"Doggy, huh?" commented Father. "Let's see what we have outside." He staggered down the hallway and to the back door. Sure enough there was a border collie running around the yard. "Awe jeez..."

Just then, Mother came in the kitchen. "What kind of dog is it?"

Father next announced, "The Hendersons' dog escaped. I'll have to give 'em a call."

Uh oh! This wasn't good for little Sally! Her dream of a lost dog coming to her house was about to shatter into pieces. "Daddy, no! He's our doggy, now! Can't we keep him?"

"No, that belongs to the Hendersons." Father picked up the phone and dialed it. "Good morning; Mr. Henderson...? I think your dog is in our backyard."

In the meantime, little Sally's lip quivered as the tears ran down her face. Why was life so cruel? The doggy she wished for so long had arrived, but about to be taken away. She sobbed and threw a near tantrum while observing mean, rotten Mr. Henderson enter the backyard in his pajamas and bathrobe. He took little Sally's doggy.

This incident only fueled more fantasies for Sally. At night she would lie in bed and imagine a dog that was far, far away—maybe a thousand miles away. Somehow he escaped the owners' backyard and ran down the street, soon to get lost. While searching for a way to get back home, maybe the dog became confused and somehow ended up on a freight train and couldn't get off until it stopped at little Sally's town. Not sure of where he was, the dog continued to run down the neighborhood streets until reaching little Sally's house.

Now what could Mother and Father say? The dog didn't belong to any of the neighbors. He was dirty, hungry, tired and in need of help. Even worse, the poor dog didn't have a collar with a tag.

Mother and Father let the dog stay with Sally with the understanding that it was only temporary until someone answered the "Lost Dog Found" ad in the paper. But the owners were a thousand miles away where they didn't receive the local paper.

The dog was so cute and friendly. He looked just like Mr. Henderson's dog, except better. With no one answering the ad, Mother and Father had no choice but to keep the dog.

***

All grown up, Sally now has her own dog; a border collie like the one she always wished for as a little girl. But she can still recall a bittersweet magic behind those childhood days of wishing so badly for a dog. All those fantasies pent up in heart leads Sally to regularly go out and play the game of Lost Dog.

Today she drove through town in her red pickup truck, moving slowly until possibly finding something that caught her eye. Just then, she spotted a man in the rearview mirror that appeared to be crossing the street. But he disappeared behind a parked delivery car. The only feature she recalled was short, brown hair and carrying a beverage from the local coffee shop.

Quickly making a u-turn at the intersection, Sally stepped on the accelerator with not a second to spare. She reached the other end of the street and turned right where the man was last seen. And there he was, reaching the end of the block and making another right. He casually sipped his coffee beverage as-if not a care in the world.

Oh, but Sally would rescue him. Apparently he was lost and probably very scared. She carefully approached the end of the block as-if not to startle the man. Then she turned and drove forward to slowly pass him, studying very carefully and evaluating the situation. He was so cute and appeared so friendly. Who could have possibly let him out to wander the streets alone?

Aware of being suddenly followed and stalked, John picked up his pace slightly. From what he could see, it was a woman who intently watched him from the pickup truck. If he didn't know any better, the woman was planning to catch him! Maybe she was dangerous.

If his feelings of suspicion weren't enough indication, John watched as the red pickup truck pulled over in a business delivery driveway in such a way to block his path. Then the woman stepped out of the truck and walked around to meet John.

"Are you lost?" Sally asked.

"Uh, no! I work in the area. I'm not lost."

Sally gently placed her hand on John's shoulder as-if to reaffirm that she meant him no harm. Then she spoke with soft eyes locked on his in such a way that one would speak to a child or a frightened animal. "Where are you supposed to be right now?" She patted him while asking.

"I'm on my lunch break. My office is right down the street."

The poor guy; he was so frightened and confused. Sally could take care of him. "Awe... why don't you come home with me? You're lost and scared. I won't hurt you. Come-on, I'm here to help you."

Needless to say, John found the woman's behavior unusual. "No, I'm okay..."

But before he could continue, Sally grabbed his arm and coaxed him towards the back of the pickup truck. "I've got you... Come-on, in you go... No one's here to hurt you." Sally opened the tailgate and coaxed John in.

John hesitated briefly. The woman was clearly out of her mind, but she seemed so nice. After a couple seconds of deliberation, John hopped into the back of the pickup truck and watched as the woman closed the tailgate.

"There, that's not so bad. I'll bring you home."

Soon the truck drove along the city streets with John sitting in the back. His hair tousled in the open wind as other motorists and pedestrians looked up at him while surely wondering why a man in a business suit would be riding in the back of a pickup truck.  After some time, he wondered why the woman didn't invite him to sit in the cab along with her. It was as-if John were nothing more than a lost dog being rescued and waiting patiently in the back of a truck to arrive at the destination.

Taking the final sip from his iced java, the pickup truck pulled into a residential neighborhood; soon to thump over the driveway curb of a house. This must have been where the strange woman lived.

Just as John was about to argue that the peculiar game had gone far enough, Sally emerged from her truck and flashed the warmest, most nurturing smile. John was safe and finally home. The woman would take such good care of him.

Sally opened the tailgate. "Okay, out you go."

Remaining quiet, John did as ordered.

"I bet you're hungry. Let's get you inside."

Inside, both Sally and John were greeted at the foyer by an excited border collie that barked and lunged from side-to-side while investigating the newcomer.

"See your new friend?" Sally asked the dog. "I found him out in the streets. Let's give him a bath and then fix him lunch."

Bath? Was the strange woman really going to give John a bath? It must have been true, for she walked down the hallway and motioned him to follow. The bath water was turned on and adjusted to what Sally felt to be the ideal temperature. Then she left the room while ordering John to get in.

Some moments later, John sat in the filling tub with soap bubbles that topped the water. The afternoon was getting to be quite interesting. What did the strange woman have in store for John?

It was only a bath and nothing more. Returning to the bathroom, Sally shut off the water and began to gently pour buckets of warm water all over John. "So, we need to give you a name."

"My name's John."

"John? No, that's not a good name for you. How about we call you Rex?"

"Rex?" asked John "What's wrong with calling me by my real name?"

"Rex is your real name. That's your new name and I'm your new owner. My name's Sally, by-the-way."

"Hi Sally, nice to meet you."

"Tilt your head back" ordered Sally. Soon she began to dump water on Rex's hair. "So where did you say you were going?"

"To the office. I was returning from lunch break."

"The office? Is that your job?"

"Yeah..."

"What were you supposed to do there?"

"Well I did have a teleconference call scheduled for about now."

"What was the teleconference call about?"

"Eh... not much. Just the customer yelling at me while the boss listens in and yells at me even more."

By now, Sally had shampoo worked into Rex's hair. She immediately stopped massaging his head at the mention of being yelled at. "Well that doesn't sound like much fun. That's almost like abuse. See, no one there loves you. Aren't you glad you came home with me?" Sally began to rinse the shampoo out of Rex's hair. "We're going to get you all cleaned up and then fix you lunch."

"I already had lunch." argued Rex.

"What did you have?"

"Not much... I was kind of in a hurry so I got my iced mocha and a cookie."

Sally shook her head while sighing. "Not eating right, either! We'll take care of that. Once you dry off I'll have a nice, hot Panini sandwich waiting for you. Do you like pastrami and Swiss?"

"Sure..." Actually Sally's lunch didn't sound so bad after all. The cookie and iced mocha didn't go too far. Rex was getting hungry. Then Rex asked, "How about Giardiniera? Do you have any of that?"

"Of course I do! I'll make you a nice lunch." Sally finished giving Rex his bath. It wasn't such a bad afternoon, after all. Considering where he was supposed to be, Rex gladly accepted the alternative. And he couldn't help but feel so loved in that moment, getting a warm bath from a nice, friendly woman who would soon make him lunch. Sally was sure to become a good friend!

***

After drying off and redressing—slacks only worn and his shirt without necktie—Rex strolled into the kitchen with the border collie excitedly trailing behind and barking.

In the kitchen, Sally had lunch prepared for the two of them. A plate had been set for Rex with his toasted Panini and a drink.

"You've got a nice dog." announced Rex as he sat down.

"Thank you!" said Sally. Then she addressed the dog. "See, Zinger, your new friend likes you!"

Rex commented on the dog's name. "Zinger, that's cute for a border collie."

"Uh-huh! I used to like Zingers when I was a little girl. Doesn't he look like a Zinger?"

"Yup, he sure does."

Rex and Sally enjoyed a nice lunch together along with some wonderful conversation. Sally was so glad to have found Rex out in the streets. After some time, she might even wonder who rescued who.

After lunch, Sally, Rex and Zinger went to the local park for a little stroll. There was a field with park benches where the three of them stopped to take a rest. That's where Sally spotted a tennis ball laying under the bench.

"Oh, look at this. Zinger loves to play fetch! Go get it!" Sally whipped the ball some distance away.

Zinger charged after the ball like an energized border collie would, and returned to drop it on the ground before Sally for more.

"Hey, let me see if I can outrun Zinger!" suggested Rex.

As Sally threw the ball, both Rex and Zinger charged after it. But Zinger was much too quick for his friend. Rex was going to have to try harder than that.

As both returned for another throw from their owner, Sally advised Rex that he was a little out of shape. But playing every day would help get off some of the excess weight so that he was just as fast as Zinger.

Rex was able to still play. He waited some distance away so that the three could play a game of interception. As Sally tossed the ball to Rex, sometimes Zinger was able to jump midair and catch it. Zinger was such a smart and talented dog.

After their outing in the park; Sally, Rex and Zinger returned home to crash in the family room before TV. Zinger laid in the fetal position on the floor while dozing off. Rex cuddled next to Sally as she stroked his hair.

Then Rex annoucned, "You know, I should really be getting home."

"Home?" asked Sally. "No, I'm afraid that's not possible. You're lost and a thousand miles away from home. Apparently your owner didn't take care of you. Not only that, I have no way of finding who this person is. You'll just have to stay with me, now. This is your new home and I'm your new owner."

Rex could say nothing. How long would Sally play this fantasy game of Lost Dog?