On a summer night, circa 1992, the Royal Father has just picked my brother and I up from Six Flags, where we had both been working. Todd Rundgren was on the radio via WXFB (aka "The Fox"), and we were talking about getting another family dog.
|A mix of your servant's favourite music|
and moves, set to stories and observations.
I made another suggestion: "What about a cat?"
"Cats are snotty!" my brother grumbled.
"Cats aren't appreciative," added the Royal Father.
So much for that idea. Some time later, we had a black-and-white English Springer Spaniel puppy in the house. Dad dubbed him Toby after the dog in the Sherlock Holmes' story "The Sign Of Four."
I think the Queen Mother would've still preferred a cat. We had to cat-sit at least once for my Aunt Shirley while she and Uncle George went on vacation, and the experience was nearly trouble-free. Nearly, because we couldn't get Sara to come out from under the upstairs sofa. Many of my aunt's cats had the tendency to hide under furniture for hours at a time without budging. It finally took some sliced turkey to lure her out. A few weeks after the cats had departed, I found a rubber mouse under another sofa.
Steve Martin immediately came to mind: