I still don’t understand what he means. “I guess. Sure.”
“You don’t sound convincing.”
“Sorry.” I could go ahead and explain how confusing this conversation is, or I could change the subject. “I’ve got a line on a new dog. A golden retriever. The pups haven’t been born yet, but the owner wants to donate a dog to me.”
See what I did there?
“How’d they find out about you?”
“Shep’s new dad. A relative of his got my name from Pets for Patriots.”
“Wow, that’s great news.”
“It is. It saves me a lot of money. I’ll still have veterinary bills, the cost of food, and so on, but I should be able to handle those without too much trouble.”
“Why don’t you find a veterinarian who will donate their services?”
“I’ve considered that.”
“And?”
“I feel stupid asking.”
“It’s not stupid. They can write it off on their taxes.”
“I’m not a non-profit. I’m not technically a business. I’m just me doing something I enjoy—training the dogs.”
“Hmm.”
“What are you hmm’ing about?”
“Nothing. So, you’re still coming down, yeah?”
“Yes.”
“Did you get a chance to look at the links I sent, about events or things we can do in Killeen and Waco while you’re here?”
“I checked them out. There were some things in Waco that sounded promising.” Honestly, there’s not a lot happening in Killeen, at least not the weekend I’m there.
“Like?”
“There was some kind of festival. Oh, also a farmer’s market.” I pause. “I wish there was a flea market. Those are fun.”
“What’s a flea market?”
“You’ve never been to a flea market?” I practically squeak the words out. How is it possible the man has never experienced one of life’s biggest pleasures… a giant garage sale? After I explain to him what a good flea market is all about, he sounds somewhat interested.
“I’ll ask. I’ll see if there are any around here.”
“You don’t have to. It was just an idea.”
“No, that sounds good.”
Why do I feel weird about all of this? My stomach started to churn the second the topic of my trip to Texas came up.
Our conversation ends with the promise to “talk soon.” Setting the phone on the counter, I reach for my now cold cup of coffee.
“Yep,” my dad says from his spot at our round kitchen table.
