My dog doesn’t make excuses
Ever see a taxi sitting by the side of the road, waiting? Ever wonder what the driver might be doing? How about the proverbial “parental taxi”? From personal experience, and as a rank amateur, the taxi parent may not be as on task as the professional. In my case, I find myself listening to whatever CBC may be offering up, without attention to the hour or the day.
This evening, while I waited, and a poor little chicken roasted in the oven without supervision, I listened to a program dealing with excuses. Curious topic, that. My dog never makes excuses, even if she is capable of showing remorse. Excuses can’t be entirely a child of conscience, then.
Among the many interlocutors, a traffic policeman commented on the variety of excuses offered to him during traffic stops. Fascinating. People are even dumber in real life than on TV. He pointed out that people tend to paddle harder once their place in verbal quicksand has been established, and we know from bad movies what that accomplishes.
Getting back to my chicken (that’s my excuse for not having a clear purpose this evening), I wonder if I should have stuffed something inside of the poor hen. After all, turkey merits a bowl of rice and ground meat. This time around, the fowl will probably serve as the garnish in a salad, or as the core of quickly made (and eaten) sandwiches. No haute cuisine here. The reason why the skin hasn’t been spiced is that I was off acting as a parental taxi. That’s my excuse and I stand by it.
