Monday, October 20, 2003
“That's not exactly a small dog there … ”
I dropped off The Kids to after school care and returned to the Facility in the Middle of Nowhere. I asked Spring if she had called the rental office about the washing machine (it stopped spinning) and the A/C (it keeps freezing over). No, she had not had the time this morning, so I took it upon myself to do that, since Spring was heading off to bed.
Not having the phone number, I walked over to the office to get it. Now, you may be asking yourself why, if I was already walking over there to begin with, that I just don't tell them. Well, last time I did that, it took my going over there three times and about three weeks for them to fix the latch on the gate. My assumption after that fiasco is that those that phone in have a higher priority than those that actually make the trek to the office, which isn't all that far to tell the truth—just across the street from the Facility in the Middle of Nowhere.
So I get to the office and ask for the phone number. The agent working the desk give me the number and asks if I need any more help. I initially said no, but after a bit of prompting she gets me to state my reasoning for the trip.
“Oh,” the agent said, “we can take care of that right now.” She pulls out a pre-printed form and starts asking me questions. At this point, I figure I have nothing to loose, and besides, the last time I did this, the agent at the time (who was a different person) just wrote a note instead of filling out an “official” form. I mention the two problems with the washer (in addition to not spinning, a venting hose was never properly attatched) and the problem with the A/C. The rental office takes A/C problems very seriously, given that this is Lower Sheol and all, and starts to call a maintenance personel to investigate.
It's then that a woman walks into the office and looks at me. “Do you have a small dog?” she asks.
“Yes,” I said. Great! I thought. Holly, the Incontinent Dog got out again! This would make the second time this week she got out. “So where is she?” I ask.
“The dog is outside,” said the woman. I go outside and look to where the woman is pointing. About twenty feet away is this huge, black, lumbering mass of dog—the type of dog that is 120 pounds of muscle and teeth. The type of dog you hope to never be on the wrong end of. The type of dog that could hardly be called “small” unless you are the type of person that breed 150 pounds of muscle and teeth for junk yard guard duty or pit fighting, not that this woman looked the type to breed such dogs.
“That's not exactly a small dog there,” I said.
“No, not that one,” said the woman. “The other one.”
“Holly?” I called out. “Holly?” And sure enough, out she pops from behind a bush near the huge, black, lumbering mass of dog, jumping up and down in extasy at the thought of being near this huge, black lumbering mass of DOG and would you could you would you please sniff my butt I'll be your bestest friend in the whole wide world please please?
I walk over and pick up Holly. That's when I notice one of the maintenance personel sitting in a golf cart not ten feet away from all this. The agent goes over to him and instructs him to check out my washing machine and A/C.
That was certainly surprising, getting such a fast turn around time.
The washing machine was taken care of pretty quickly—nothing major there. The A/C, on the other hand, requires a bit more work another day. Fortunately, the weather has turned nice and thus having a wonky A/C isn't fatal.