The operation got on the road to Burleson on Monday to take care of business. And so, to pass I35W time, I crunched the numbers and discovered that I was, bizarrely, 58 on that very same day. Here's the complex math: 2023-1965 = x. Tricky, isn't it, and hint, 59 ≠ x.
I know, that's pretty racist but there you have it, mathematics. Bottom line accountancy satisfied, business concluded to mutual benefit, Thai curry consumed, yum, and it was back on the road to the Compound where...
There was a dog on the porch and a grinning soldier. "Happy birthday, dad. We interviewed a number of dogs and figured this one was best. Look, he's part Ridgeback, and you love Rhodesia. He doesn't even bark."
Moving, eh? The kid had gone off to the pound and found a dog for his dad, with attention to breed(s) and demeanor. Well, there it is, the Compound has a new rescue dog and he's a good boy, part Ridgeback, part Heeler, part something else, maybe Lab and/or Pyrenees?
Regardless, what shall we call him? The pound called him "Chester," which obviously won't do. Perhaps Rhodie? But hey, all suggestions welcome.
Hope you're having big fun today as we celebrate our freedom.
LSP
