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My elderly parents just had their beloved Scottie named Ellie (yes, for you-know-who) pass away at the age of 17 human years. They asked me if I would come and bury her for them in their garden. Of course, I could not say no and was glad to be able to help them out with the task.
Well, the temperatures down here have been well below freezing and dropping into the single digits for some time now and the garden is a raised affair with a three foot brick wall holding in the dirt. I figured the ground might be hard, so I loaded a gas powered roto-tiller into the back of the pick-up that I figured would make quick work of things if the ground was too hard for a shovel.
I struggled and chipped at the surface for an hour and got about two inches into the block of iced dirt before I finally gave up for the day. It's supposed to warm up later today and even hit the 50's tomorrow so I'm going back and will try again in the hopes that the ground will work with me a bit more than it did today.
Nothing funny about that, right? It's what happened on the way home.
I always stop at the same shop for my vices, beer and tobacco. The shop is owned and operated by a Middle Eastern family that I have come to know and am always chatty with. Mohamed commented about how the weather was about to change.
I replied, "Thank God, I've been out trying to dig a hole for my parents-"
Mo's mouth dropped and his eyes showed that he was trying to process the unbelievable.
"My parent's DOG!" I let out as soon as I processed that his cultural experiences might be a bit different than my own and that my initial statement about digging a hole for my parents could have come across with rather macabre connotations.
We both confused other customers as we laughed loudly and together and a new level of friendship grew in the way that it can only grow with a honestly shared laugh.
"Thank goodness," Mo said. "I was thinking I was going to have to call the sheriff on you."
From today, I will try to think more before opening my mouth.
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