This is the screenplay version of an evening in the life of Layce and Saxon.
EXT. LAYCE AND SAXON’S HOUSE – DAY
It’s a seventy-degree day in February because there is no climate change. Skateboarders in shorts WHIZZ up and down the residential street in front of their two-story home.
INT. LIVING ROOM – DAY
Layce and Saxon sit in matching recliners, tandem reading on Kindles. Saxon looks up.
Have you gotten me a Valentine’s Day present yet?
I refuse to answer that because you will trick me into
telling you what the present is. If I had one.
Since you haven’t gotten me a present yet, I want a cappuccino
maker. There’s a sale on Amazon where you can get a really
nice one for under one hundred dollars.
How much exactly is under one hundred?
It’s ninety-nine dollars.
My vote is no on the cappuccino maker. We already have a
perfectly nice Mr. Coffee.
Layce continues reading while Saxon only pretends to read. Two minutes pass.
Then in that case, I want an English Bulldog for my
Valentine’s Day present.
You answered that really quick.
That’s because I knew the answer.
My whole life I’ve wanted an English Bulldog. Why won’t you
let me realize my life’s goal?
Because of the poop factor.
What poop factor? I’ve never heard of a poop factor.
My entire adult life has centered around poop. My poop. My daughter’s
poop. The poop of pets. I hate poop. Even my own poop. I changed
Emma’s diapers for two years. Two very dark, very poopy years.
As soon as that was blessedly over, I had three old dogs who became
incontinent. You remember waking up every day and cleaning up
the dog poop that they could no longer hold in until they got let outside.
It was a mess. It was like a horror movie. That lasted
three years. Three years where I was up to my ankles in poop. Then they
went over the rainbow bridge and I was relieved of poop duty. For two
months. Then along came Tux the cat and we took him in. Now he poops
in a box and not on the floor, but I still have to clean it up. Once again, I
am cleaning up poop. Some days I wake up and wonder if this is my
mission in life. Am I just a pooper scooper? Is that all I am? Will that
be written on my headstone? With my luck we will live to ninety-nine
and I’ll still have control of my bowels, but you won’t. I’ll have to
change your diapers. So I have that to look forward to. I have to vote
no on the English Bulldog. I don’t want to clean up anymore poop, thank
you very much.
Cappuccino makers don’t poop.
Fine. Order the damn cappuccino maker. Just don’t ever bring home
another dog. Or pet. Nothing that poops.
Silence. A slow smile creeps across Saxon’s face as she “reads.” Layce over at Saxon and squints one eye.
I think I just got played.
I have no idea what you mean.
You didn’t even want a dog. You just wanted to trick me
into a cappuccino maker.
(Ignoring Layce’s last remark)
For fifty dollars more, we can get a double-cappucino maker.
We can’t afford it.
Or a French Bulldog. I want one of those. They have
these cute little pointed ears and —
Fine. Get the double cappuccino maker.
And they lived happily ever after.
Check out our new book! Saxon and I think it’s our best book ever.