Woof, woof.
“Leonard is in the slammer.”
Not wanting to add any undue fuel to the emotional fire, I delivered the line in the sort of cool, detached tone one might use when saying, “Please pass the salt,” or “Not tonight, dear, I have a headache.”
Anticipating my eldest son’s frenzied response to my news bulletin, I held my cell phone away from my ear. “Where is he? How long has he been in? Who picked him up? When did you find out? Is he alright?” Beau blathered in one breathless streak. And then the highly predictable grand finale, “We’ve got to go get him out!”
Ah, yes, the imperial-use of the pronoun “we.” I myself prefer a more classic usage as in, “We have to kill that spider,” or “We need to take the trash out,” or “We better get the toilet plunger.” But I admired Beau’s mastery of the strategic placement of the pronoun, inserting it discreetly at the tail end of his frantic rant and cleverly cloaking it in the guise of a noble cause. But I knew and Beau knew that I would be doing the driving, I would be doing the fast-talking, I would be anteing up the cash, and he would be taking all the credit. “Come pick me up, and hurry.”
It had been many months since I had laid eyes on Leonard. Beau’s brothers seemed excited that circumstances were once again bringing him back into our lives, although I was suffering a bout of mix emotions. Regardless, I knew Leonard could not survive the riggers of “the system” through the upcoming weekend and time was running out to initiate a rescue. With just minutes to spare, I pulled into the parking lot of the ominous “facility.”
Once the paperwork was completed and the fines paid, inmate number 47377 was released into my custody. I was happy to learn that my husband’s legal services wouldn’t be required to resolve this ugly episode provided I exercised due diligence in getting Leonard’s rabies shot current.
Copyright © 2017 Patra Taylor
Patra Taylor 