Driving Dr. Dawg, Part 1

It was cold and breezy and the rain was inconsistently uncomfortable. It was the new year, and it looked like hell. Everything looked grey, and bleak. The dark was grudgingly giving way to an angry, unfriendly dawn. And dawn was not happy to be there.

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.