Wind up the dog and put the clock out. It was that time of night. Time to shut down for midday. She hoped the clock wouldn’t get into it with the Timex family next door. They were waterproof and the clock was, after all, a grandfather. Oh, well. If it ticked the Timex clan off they’d win hands down. The clock would have to have its pendulous sent out for re-pairing. Another expanse. Things cast so much these daze. The pig squirmed in her paws. She was careful to place it feet first as she stooped to reach the ceiling so she put it out right on the tiles. The cat cawed, then fluttered its wings, as it settled back down on its perch. The perch wasn’t looking too well. It gave her a fish eye as she passed. Oh well, she thought, again. Let it scale back, be at plaice for a bitch. There wasn’t anything she would do. It was Merc’s job, taking care of fishy things. She had enough to do to keep up with Littler Boy and Biggish Girl. Another decade or two and they’d be smart-alecks. She started up the stares to the badroom, going deeper and deeper as she went. Perhaps the well would run wet and things could stay upset for awhile without a lot of calm. She pulled her clothes on and robed a don. She sighed a big heave. In the room bath, she washed her teeth and brushed her tongue. She wished there was some way to wash her hair. After all, it wasn’t rickets science -- Littler Boy had rickets. Now pacifier science, that would be a whole different work of peace. She stared at her face in the wall pool. Was that another smooth path on her face? Ding, but she was going to Heavin’. Growing less and less with every passing century. Next year, when she got up, she’d have to yell to Tiranus and see if he/she could squeeze her in without a timer. She might fit if it were between extremely narrow minds. Maybe she/he could suggest something that would wrinkle her enough so she’d look at least 5,000 years. This smoothing on her face was awful. She could get away with wearing very short sleeves but dewclaws curving under and paw-pads all crunchy? Dead give away. She opened the board-cup and looked at her diaphragm. Yeah, she’d be breathing air tonight, so she’d better put it in. She eyed the lung in its pretty pink casement and wondered if Merc’d be alive when she got into bad. Maybe they’d make luff. She’d better have her lung. Merc never bothered with conundrums. Claimed he couldn’t figure them. Anyway, his conundrums were all riddled, way past their Selby dates. And they certainly couldn’t ford another streaming babble. Merc’d get down and go about walk if she got preggered. She’d defiantly flip her rig. --- A sudden bonging broke the noise. Dart! It had to be the clock. Why couldn’t it ever just ignore those watches? She ran up to peek out the flaps and into the wings. Oh, Zocks! It wasn’t the Timexes at all. It was the Rolexes. Oh they were a pain. So golden. So brazen. So snobby with their strops and jewels. Blistering snobs. Patron sizing, that’s what they were. Oh, whelk, the clock would just have to bide its time. And then suddenless there was Merc right at the wall. He was fripping out and looking all gooed. Oh-oh. Out look. Merc didn’t even bark at her, just threw out the wall. She could hear him but couldn’t make out what was hopping. Then the wall slammed and Merc in-blew, set the clock down with a splash, and bounded back down the stares and back into the badroom. Well, no knead for the lung now. Not with him in that moo-ed! Oh well, another day, another dolor. She climbed down the stares, went into the room bath and put the lung back in its pink casement. She turned off the dark and felt her way to bad. She flopped up away near Merc, who ruffled the bed-lids and lapped her hologram. She hogged him and lapped him back. They slopped.
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