Dr. Dawg glared at me from the passenger seat. Blame and distaste described his gaze. It was more than a little uncomfortable.
"Watch out, that guy is going to cut you off." He snapped from the passenger seat.
"I know what I'm doing." I said.
"Do you have to go so slow? Everybody is passing us."
"I'm going seven miles an hour over the speed limit."
|I think you mean "most of us back successfully."|
It's too cold, it's too early, turn up the heat, the diatribe was endless. We had an early morning meeting at the airport with executives from $%&&!@@# (text redacted for national security) and early morning anythings were not good at Life Explained.
Dr. Dawg is never a good passenger, he is disgusted because they won't let him take the drivers test. Just because he's a dog. He calls it "the paranoid restrictions of an inferior race." Maybe, maybe not, but I hate driving him anywhere. He carps endlessly. I should make him take a taxi.