The Dog of the North: A Novel
* Finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize * A New Yorker Best Book of the Year * A New York Times Book Review Editors' Choice * Nominated for the Women's Prize for Fiction *

“I'm in love with a grieving misfit driving around with a donkey-shaped piñata in an old van held together by duct tape...the great miracle of McKenzie's writing... is how she manages to transform misery into gentle humor...darkly hilarious.” -The Washington Post

“An addictive read with an ultimately hopeful core that recalls Haruki Murakami, Sayaka Murata, Richard Brautigan, and Miranda July” - Sanjena Sathian, author of Gold Diggers

Penny Rush has problems. Her marriage is over; she's quit her job. Her*mother and stepfather went missing in the Australian outback five years*ago; her mentally unbalanced father provokes her; her grandmother*Dr. Pincer keeps experiments in the refrigerator and something worse*in the woodshed. But Penny is a virtuoso at what's possible when all*else fails.
*
Elizabeth McKenzie, the National Book Award-nominated author*of*The Portable Veblen, follows Penny on her quest for a fresh start. There*will be a road trip in the Dog of the North, an old van with gingham*curtains, a piñata, and stiff brakes. There will be injury and peril. There*will be a dog named Kweecoats and two brothers who may share a*toupee. There will be questions: Why is a detective investigating her*grandmother. What is “the Scintillator”? And can Penny recognize a*good thing when it finally comes her way?
*
This slyly humorous, thoroughly winsome novel finds the purpose in life's curveballs, insisting that even when we are painfully warped by those we love most, we can be brought closer to our truest selves.
"1141470459"
The Dog of the North: A Novel
* Finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize * A New Yorker Best Book of the Year * A New York Times Book Review Editors' Choice * Nominated for the Women's Prize for Fiction *

“I'm in love with a grieving misfit driving around with a donkey-shaped piñata in an old van held together by duct tape...the great miracle of McKenzie's writing... is how she manages to transform misery into gentle humor...darkly hilarious.” -The Washington Post

“An addictive read with an ultimately hopeful core that recalls Haruki Murakami, Sayaka Murata, Richard Brautigan, and Miranda July” - Sanjena Sathian, author of Gold Diggers

Penny Rush has problems. Her marriage is over; she's quit her job. Her*mother and stepfather went missing in the Australian outback five years*ago; her mentally unbalanced father provokes her; her grandmother*Dr. Pincer keeps experiments in the refrigerator and something worse*in the woodshed. But Penny is a virtuoso at what's possible when all*else fails.
*
Elizabeth McKenzie, the National Book Award-nominated author*of*The Portable Veblen, follows Penny on her quest for a fresh start. There*will be a road trip in the Dog of the North, an old van with gingham*curtains, a piñata, and stiff brakes. There will be injury and peril. There*will be a dog named Kweecoats and two brothers who may share a*toupee. There will be questions: Why is a detective investigating her*grandmother. What is “the Scintillator”? And can Penny recognize a*good thing when it finally comes her way?
*
This slyly humorous, thoroughly winsome novel finds the purpose in life's curveballs, insisting that even when we are painfully warped by those we love most, we can be brought closer to our truest selves.
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The Dog of the North: A Novel

The Dog of the North: A Novel

by Elizabeth McKenzie

Narrated by Katherine Littrell

Unabridged — 9 hours, 5 minutes

The Dog of the North: A Novel

The Dog of the North: A Novel

by Elizabeth McKenzie

Narrated by Katherine Littrell

Unabridged — 9 hours, 5 minutes

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Overview

* Finalist for the Los Angeles Times Book Prize * A New Yorker Best Book of the Year * A New York Times Book Review Editors' Choice * Nominated for the Women's Prize for Fiction *

“I'm in love with a grieving misfit driving around with a donkey-shaped piñata in an old van held together by duct tape...the great miracle of McKenzie's writing... is how she manages to transform misery into gentle humor...darkly hilarious.” -The Washington Post

“An addictive read with an ultimately hopeful core that recalls Haruki Murakami, Sayaka Murata, Richard Brautigan, and Miranda July” - Sanjena Sathian, author of Gold Diggers

Penny Rush has problems. Her marriage is over; she's quit her job. Her*mother and stepfather went missing in the Australian outback five years*ago; her mentally unbalanced father provokes her; her grandmother*Dr. Pincer keeps experiments in the refrigerator and something worse*in the woodshed. But Penny is a virtuoso at what's possible when all*else fails.
*
Elizabeth McKenzie, the National Book Award-nominated author*of*The Portable Veblen, follows Penny on her quest for a fresh start. There*will be a road trip in the Dog of the North, an old van with gingham*curtains, a piñata, and stiff brakes. There will be injury and peril. There*will be a dog named Kweecoats and two brothers who may share a*toupee. There will be questions: Why is a detective investigating her*grandmother. What is “the Scintillator”? And can Penny recognize a*good thing when it finally comes her way?
*
This slyly humorous, thoroughly winsome novel finds the purpose in life's curveballs, insisting that even when we are painfully warped by those we love most, we can be brought closer to our truest selves.

Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly

01/16/2023

A grieving woman navigates a series of misadventures in the endearing and quirky latest from McKenzie (The Portable Veblen). Five years earlier, Penny Rush’s mother and stepfather disappeared while traveling in the Australian outback. When Penny Rush learns her grandmother, known mainly as Dr. Pincer, has threatened her Meals on Wheels delivery person with a gun at her Santa Barbara house, Penny quits her dead-end job and takes the train from Santa Cruz to help keep Pincer safe from the prying eyes at Adult Protective Services. She’s also relieved to have something to get her mind off her missing mother. There, she befriends Pincer’s kooky accountant, Burt Lampey. As Penny arranges for a cleaning crew to fix up Pincer’s house, she gets a call from her grandfather Arlo’s much-younger wife, who complains Arlo is “too old to be of use.” Along the way, Penny gets help from Burt, who drives a van named the Dog of the North and has a Pomeranian called Kweecoats (“like Quick Oats, but with a French accent,” Burt explains). There’s also a trip to Australia, unexpected visits from Penny’s biological father, and the discovery of a skeleton. With the anxious and well-meaning Penny at the helm, McKenzie brings sincerity to the otherwise zany proceedings. This whirlwind tale has heart to spare. Agent: Emily Forland, Brandt & Hochman Literary. (Mar.)

From the Publisher

The plot gallops along . . . As the caper wanes, McKenzie allows Penny a modicum of closure. This is the sweet, yet cautionary note the book ends on. The past is a sinkhole, it seems to say. It’ll swallow you, if you’re not careful, and your Land Cruiser, too.” —Erin Somers, The New York Times Book Review
 
“I’m in love with a grieving misfit driving around with a donkey-shaped piñata in an old van held together by duct tape. Her name is Penny Rush . . . The great miracle of McKenzie’s writing . . . is how she manages to transform misery into gentle humor . . . The irresistible sound of The Dog of the North is Penny’s voice, composed of mingled strains of good cheer and naked lament . . . darkly hilarious.” —Ron Charles, The Washington Post

“A vibrant novel that combines slapstick comedy with poignancy.” The New Yorker

“Gloriously entertaining. An exuberant comedy of human behaviour at its nuttiness. It is so engaging that I read it in great gulps, immersed in the sheer eccentricity of her world.” —Kate Saunders, The Times (London)

“[A] delightful narrative...Sadly, no matter how many times you try to pause so it won't be over, it still ends—with a decent outcome for its protagonist, thank heaven, because by that time you will be fully in love with Penny. McKenzie has created a wonderful addition to the crew of damaged characters beloved by readers, so very endearing and real.” Kirkus (starred)

“Endearing and quirky . . . With the anxious and well-meaning Penny at the helm, McKenzie brings sincerity to the otherwise zany proceedings. This whirlwind tale has heart to spare.” Publishers Weekly

“Zany and fun . . . Penny is always sharp, ready for the other shoe to drop, and lovable. This spinning, upside-down rollercoaster of a novel is a delightful portrait of the definitive chaos of love and family and perfect for fans of Carl Hiassen and George Saunders.” Booklist

“For readers who like their books odd, haunting, strange and surprising . . . Through Penny’s eyes, we see the beauty in the seemingly broken, in the flawed stories we tell ourselves—and what happens when those stories delightfully shatter.” Freya Sachs, BookPage

“What a wonderfully weird yet deeply familiar world Elizabeth McKenzie has sketched in The Dog of the North! These pages are full of the absurdly funny alongside the absurdly tragic—hairpieces, talking fish, disappeared parents, a scalpel-happy grandmother, gastrointestinal disasters—the strangeness is not mere quirk. McKenzie’s brilliance lies in her deadpan gaze and cool wit, which shows us how inherently odd reality itself is. Families are odd. Homes are odd. California is odd. Dogs and hair and steak and trout are odd. Look up from this book and feel understood in your own inexplicable oddity. A joy, a pleasure, and an addictive read with an ultimately hopeful core that recalls Haruki Murakami, Sayaka Murata, Richard Brautigan, and Miranda July.” —Sanjena Sathian, author of Gold Diggers

“Elizabeth McKenzie has a unique gift for turning the messiness of families and their unfinished business into poignant comedy. You will fall in love with this extended clan of misfits, even after they break your heart.” —Charlie Jane Anders, author of Victories Greater than Death

“Darkly absurd and slyly insightful, Elizabeth McKenzie's The Dog of the North charms and delights even as it wrestles with childhood trauma, bodily indignity, and sudden death. This is a whirlwind picaresque, a genuinely comic novel, and—most surprising and most satisfying—a potent, poignant investigation into grief and the myriad ways we flailingly, failingly attempt to avoid the pains of loss.” —Miranda Popkey, author of Topics of Conversation

“Sometimes the modern world seems like an inescapable hellscape. Then I remember that Elizabeth McKenzie is writing novels, and I feel better again. The Dog of the North is exactly as much fun as The Big Lebowski or one of Charles Portis's comic jaunts, filled with dialogue so fun you'll want to say it aloud and a blissful parade American eccentrics. Trust me—there's a guy who tries to invent something called Steak in a Trout™.” —Ed Park, author of Personal Days

“The Dog of The North
filled me with joy, a glorious feeling in these times. I laughed out loud on every page and underlined most of the book—passages to return to.  The novel in several different dimensions is about caretaking, a role that most people stumble into, don’t plan on, and suddenly, wham, there you are doing this task for which you may or may not be prepared.  Each person in the book in her/his own way is taking care at some level, even if he/she is wrong headed (or insane) in the approach.  Thank you, thank you, Elizabeth McKenzie!”—Jane Hamilton, author of The Excellent Lombards
 
“Compassionate, funny, quirky, and beautifully written, Elizabeth McKenzie's The Dog of the North is a novel of our moment. McKenzie spins an exquisitely-wrought tale about the contemporary precariat, health woes, fraying relationships, and the durability of friendship, which she sets within the early midlife walkabout. A triumph!”—Yxta Maya Murray, author of Art Is Everything

“Even funnier, even more romantic than McKenzie's wonderful last, The Portable Veblen, this is a screwball comedy worthy of a Preston Sturgis screenplay.  You will be surprised, delighted, and grateful to be aboard The Dog of the North with the admirable Penny Rush as she faces every challenge her wild and crazy family can throw at her. A book that lifts the spirits.” —Karen Joy Fowler, author of Booth

June 2023 - AudioFile

Katherine Littrell hits every comedic and dramatic note in her narration of this family saga. Penny Rush's marriage is crumbling, and she's close to being penniless when she's summoned to her grandmother Pincer's home by Pincer's accountant, Burt Lampey. Pincer has dementia and a hoarding streak. A plan to clean the home leads to a wild adventure involving road trips from California to Australia, mysteries from the past, and just maybe a new direction in life. Littrell voices Penny in a world-weary "What now?" tone; Pincer with an unapologetic, commanding voice; and Burt with a charm and grace that are both heartwarming and heartbreaking. Littrell paints clear and beautiful pictures as her American, Southern, and Australian accents add to the appeal of the story. L.M.G. Winner of AudioFile Earphones Award © AudioFile 2023, Portland, Maine

Kirkus Reviews

★ 2022-12-14
When her mad-scientist grandmother waves a gun at Meals on Wheels, Penny Rush is called to Santa Barbara, where her adventures begin.

The unattributed epigraph of this book—"For a while I went berserk, and wished it would never end..."—is eventually revealed to be an excerpt from the journal of one of the characters. One suspects it also reflects McKenzie's state of mind while writing this delightful narrative, and it soon becomes relatable for the enchanted reader. Sadly, no matter how many times you try to pause so it won't be over, it still ends—with a decent outcome for its protagonist, thank heaven, because by that time you will be fully in love with Penny, a socially awkward, deeply idiosyncratic misfit with trauma in her past, somewhere on the spectrum between Elizabeth Zott of Lessons in Chemistry and Eleanor Oliphant of Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine. "In the past twenty-four hours," she says at the outset, "I’d abruptly left my job, burning a bridge that I was happy to cross for the last time, and I’d confronted my husband Sherman: I know all about Bebe Sinatra and the cocaine." She's picked up at the Santa Barbara train station by Burt Lampey, her grandmother Dr. Pincer's accountant, a toupéed teddy bear of a man who drives a battered Econoline van he calls the Dog of the North. His other dog is a Pomeranian known as Kweecoats, though his collar tag says QUIXOTE, surely a nod to the original picaresque novel of which this is a gleeful descendant. As Dr. Pincer's situation becomes increasingly fraught, Penny's attention is distracted by her grandfather. With his second wife kicking him out of the house, he asks Penny to accompany him to Australia to make one last search for her parents, who disappeared into the Outback five years earlier. Their experiences there will compete in death-defying drama with Penny's childhood memory of being saved from an untimely watery demise by a talking fish. “Are you a grunion?” she asks him, once safe on the beach. “I’m a false grunion. It’s all a big mistake,” he tells her. “I know what that’s like,” she replies.

McKenzie has created a wonderful addition to the crew of damaged characters beloved by readers, so very endearing and real.

Product Details

BN ID: 2940174948136
Publisher: Penguin Random House
Publication date: 03/14/2023
Edition description: Unabridged

Read an Excerpt

1

My plan was to catch the ten o'clock train from Salinas to Santa Barbara, seeing as I had no car and a few problems to deal with there. It is never convenient to be without a car in California, but I was pretty sure I would be able to borrow my grandfather's Honda station wagon once I arrived. And Burt Lampey would pick me up. Though I had to leave suddenly, the timing was good, as I'd been living in a motel for the past three weeks and was looking for a good excuse to quit my job. You might say the Santa Barbara crises had been timed perfectly for my circumstances. Extricating myself from Santa Cruz, the site of my most recent failures, was very welcome, actually a relief. So I took a bus to Watsonville, transferring to another that would take me through Castroville to the station, and, seeing as how chaotic things had been recently, the thought of being a passenger with nothing to do for the day but sit still while in motion was something to look forward to.


Even so, I was on edge. After all, I'd be facing two unpleasant situations through which great anger was sure to be directed at me. I was used to being the object of anger, especially recently, but that didn't make it any easier.

Adding to my general unease were thoughts of what I was leaving behind. In the past twenty-four hours I'd abruptly left my job, burning a bridge that I was happy to cross for the last time, and I'd confronted my husband, Sherman: I know all about Bebe Sinatra and the cocaine.

True, I took the cowardly way and wrote emails, but they were masterpieces of obfuscation. In no way did they reveal the depth of my disgust at what precipitated this rupture. They were the whimper rather than the bang at the end of my world, but I could not move forward if I were to permit myself the full brunt of my feelings.

As the bus neared Salinas, I started to breathe evenly. A hair glinted on my sleeve; I pulled it off and let it fly out the slightly opened window into the fields of brussels sprouts and artichokes flanking the highway. A rotten smell, like that from the neglected vegetable bin at the bottom of my last refrigerator, was blowing in. Despite the fact that I was finished with Sherman, I wondered where he was and what he was doing, and if I'd always wonder, no matter how humiliating the final days of our time together. For instance, last month, pouring Sherman's dirty clothes into the washer, I discovered a slightly worn pink thong. "Yuck, what's this?" I said.

"Oh. I found a bag of stuff at a bus stop. Thought maybe you might like it."

Repulsed, I held up the abbreviated scrap. "But the back part went up somebody else's buttock crevice."

"Can't you just say crack like everybody else?" Sherman said with disgust, peeling back yet another layer of his true feelings toward me.

"Sure. Whose crack was it anyway?" Nothing but anguish would compel me to say a thing like that.


Eventually I boarded the train and settled in. Just after the Zephyr left the station, the train door whooshed open, ushering in a cloud of patchouli oil and the sound of jingling metal objects. A woman came up the aisle and purposefully took the seat across from me. Small brass bells and coins had been sewn onto her billowy patchwork skirt. She then made eye contact and asked if I’d like to have my palm read for twenty dollars.

Twenty dollars was a lot to me, but there I was, heading off into a great unknown. Once I dealt with the issues in Santa Barbara, my future was up for grabs. I was like the strand of hair blowing out the window, uprooted, alone. If ever there was a time I might want my palm read, this was it. So I agreed to it and she took my right hand and began to study the fleshy side, tracing her finger along some of the lines. At last she said, "I can see that in your past lives you experienced many episodes of aggression. Here"-she pointed to a place where two creases intersected-"I can see that you were once beheaded, and also strangled." She looked up to gauge my reaction. Because I'm accustomed to disguising my feelings, she saw no reason not to press on. "And you are easily taken advantage of."

I can't quote the rest of her findings, as I was immediately consumed by the information already imparted. For a moment I wondered if she was mocking me for accepting her services, yet I wasn't willing to rule out that she had provided me with a valuable insight. The main problem was that the people sitting in front of me were talking loudly enough that I could hear them, and I'm unable to listen to two things at once, and quickly realized I'd much rather listen to them than this bleak history of bodily injury. I gave her the twenty and told her that would be enough.

The people in front of me were discussing everyday matters, but it was somehow pleasant to listen to them. They needed to replace their garbage disposal because their teenage son had fed avocado pits into it. They'd go to a favorite restaurant in L.A. that evening. They had a meeting with someone tomorrow about a tax issue, but didn't seem worried about it. Every now and then I heard them laugh.

I suddenly realized I was being transported to the backseat of our family car with my parents talking up front. Car trips always brought out the best in my mother, a geologist by profession, whereas at home she was often restless and moody. So, while I had some of my best memories of them from the times spent with my sister in the backseat, any pleasure I took was quickly obliterated by the cruel irony that on a long drive, some years later, they disappeared off the face of the earth.

My parents had already taken the step of vacating the northern hemisphere. They were creating a new life for themselves in Australia ostensibly because they liked the climate and the geomorphology, enjoyed the adventure, and got good returns on the exchange rate. But it's also possible to say that they went to denounce the American Dream and avoid the various unpleasant people who had damaged their lives. We, my sister and I, had taken their emigration in stride. In fact, my sister had joined them. But then they had to take it a step further and vanish altogether. My father, also known as my stepfather, also known as Hugh, was as detail-oriented and protective as a spouse could be. They were two people who would leave nothing to chance, who had planned every day of that trip, who provided us with an itinerary before leaving, complete with phone numbers and addresses of their stops along the way. The last known witness to see them alive, at a petrol station in Mount Isa, saw nothing to arouse his concern. Just a middle-aged couple filling up and checking the air pressure in their tires. My sister and I did not know for several days that they had failed to show up at their next destination. Nor was their car ever recovered. Search-and-rescue teams scoured the area for weeks and found nothing.

Though nearly five years had passed, I hadn't really been able to accept or even think about it.

In the late afternoon, I stood outside the Santa Barbara train station with my bag, waiting for Burt Lampey. He'd offered to pick me up and put me up for the night, and we were to have dinner to discuss the plan we'd execute the following day vis-à-vis my grandmother, Dr. Pincer. I had never met Burt in person but had spoken with him a number of times by now. As Pincer's accountant, he had become one of the few people she trusted. Little did Pincer know that Burt called me secretly every time he saw her to keep me updated on her condition.

The day was still bright and warm. As a child I'd spent weeks at a time here with my grandparents and, despite how things had turned out, still had fond feelings for the place. I'd visited over the years too many times to count, though never before by train. I paced in front of the station, scanning the parking lot and beyond, hoping Burt hadn't forgotten. Finally, an old, sea-green van entered the lot and pulled up before me. It had a number of gashes and dents on the body and looked slightly sinister. The man driving leaned over and rolled down the passenger window and called out, "Penny?"

It was Burt. Over the phone, his voice had filled me with confidence.

He threw it in park and jumped out. As he rounded the dented front end, I felt an unexpected jolt of terror. It was a jolt I experienced from time to time when I realized I was about to be thrown into an extended conversation with someone who might notice something about me they didn't like.

Burt reached for my hand. He was a large man with a significant mane of brown hair and a friendly face. He was wearing baggy green shorts, a white T-shirt with the name of a local brewery on it, and high-top white Nikes with black socks.

"How was the trip?" he asked.

I decided not to mention my encounter with the palm reader. I didn't want him to form the idea that I was someone who regularly squandered money. In fact, I was very careful with money, having so little of it. The palm reader had been a whimsical extravagance to celebrate my escape from Santa Cruz, and a good reminder that whimsical extravagances were mostly disappointing.

"Good," I said, in my typically conversationally stunted fashion. "I haven't taken a train in years," I struggled to add, hating small talk but knowing that this kind of comment was considered normal.

"Hop in," he said, holding open the passenger door.

He revealed with that gesture the seat I was to take, gamely held together with duct tape. Once I was in, he slammed the door so hard my eardrums buckled. Between us rumbled a large hump under a blue quilted vinyl cover. The engine, Burt said. I looked in the back, making out a tangle of objects-a hose, a bicycle, boxes, suitcases, an old ironing board, a musty, donkey-shaped piñata, a tire.

"Forgive my mess," Burt said, when he took his seat at the wheel. "I'm kind of between things."

I didn't know anything about Burt's personal life, so I said, "Oh, I see. That makes sense."

"Wouldn't want to do anything radical until your grandmother's squared away."

Radical? I wasn't sure what he meant, nor why my grandmother had anything to do with it.

We started down State Street in the squeaking van. I couldn't help thinking of my childhood days in Santa Barbara when we'd come watch the yearly fiesta and State Street was closed off and beautiful white horses paraded past, bearing pretty ladies with flowers in their hair. And the white rumps of the horses flashed in the sun. My grandmother and grandfather were still married then, but likely already hated each other. At the time I didn't realize such a thing was possible. The fiesta evaporated as we pulled into the parking lot of a modern office building, where Burt found a space.

"Here?"

"This is it. Hop on out."

I grabbed my bag and followed him into the building. At the center of the lobby stood an open flight of stairs made of cement slabs mounted on steel supports, under which a garden of ferns and other struggling houseplants had been assigned to simulate a grotto. I followed him to the second floor, down a hall to a door bearing his plaque: burton lampey, cpa.

As he unlocked the door and pushed it open, I came to the sudden and horrible realization that this was where he was living. I sputtered, "Oh my god, Burt, no! I'm really imposing. I can stay in a motel."

"No imposition at all," Burt said.

The air in his office was stuffy and ripe, a blend of masculine aromas. It looked like a dorm room-sleeping bag on the couch, pile of pizza boxes on the desk, plastic laundry basket filled with beer bottles, shirts on hangers hooked onto the bookcase, a stick of deodorant and a bottle of mouthwash on a shelf.

"The couch is all yours," he said generously. But how could I sleep in the same room with Burt Lampey? I began to panic. He was a trusted friend of the family, wasn't he? Certainly he wouldn't try to molest me in my sleep. But how could I relax? Did the window open, was there any fresh air?

"But what about you?" I managed to say.

"Back here," he said, pointing behind his desk. "I'll be on the floor and loving it."

I craned my neck and saw that he'd planned ahead with another sleeping bag and pillow.

"No reason to hang out here, let's go get something to eat!" he said.

With that, it seemed to be decided. I currently had a total of just under eight hundred fifty dollars from selling my 1987 Chevette, with nothing in savings because Sherman's business had proved to be an insatiable money pit. Anything I could avoid paying for, the better.

We walked down State Street to Burt's favorite Mexican restaurant and were lucky enough to be seated in a spacious booth. My spirits picked up. The restaurant was popular and festive and the smells emanating from nearby tables made me feel ravenous. Before I could say anything, Burt ordered a pitcher of margaritas. I supposed there was no reason to stop him.

"Well, we finally meet," Burt said. "How long's this been going on, a couple years now?"

"I can't tell you how much we appreciate how helpful you've been to her," I said.

"I'm a sucker for stubborn old mules," he said.

I nodded and laughed, wanting him to know that it was perfectly fine to call my grandmother an old mule.

"She's never turned on you?" I asked, recalling the ill-fated trip I'd taken with her a few years back.

"Only once," Burt said with a note of pride. It seemed he'd picked up Pincer to take her to lunch, but just after they drove off, she claimed to have left behind a letter she needed to mail and demanded he turn around and go back. Burt said he had another appointment after their lunch and there wasn't time, that he would grab the letter when he brought her home. At that point, she said if he didn't stop the car she'd report him for kidnapping. He tried to calm her down, but she kept on. She told him she'd never liked him, never liked the way he dressed, never liked the way he looked. She accused him of embezzling and said he was one of the ugliest men alive. She said she only ever put up with him because he was too stupid to know he was being used.
 
“She said my accounting skills were nothing to write home about and that she could do it in her sleep if she had to. And that not only was I professionally inept and unattractive, but the most boring man she’d ever met! She reamed me. I’d never experienced anything like it, even from my wife.”

“How did you manage to stay friends?” I wondered.

“Next time I saw her, it was like nothing happened. I feel sorry for the old bat,” Burt said. “Anyway, I don’t know if one day will be enough to make a dent over there. I still think she’s going to have to be forcibly removed and the place cleaned out with a bulldozer,” Burt asserted.
 
I knew I’d never want to forcibly remove her. “But her house means everything to her.”

“Bottom line, get the gun,” Burt said. “That’s the biggie. Until we have the gun, nobody can do anything in there.”

I nodded grimly. The urgency of the situation stemmed from arecent incident involving Meals on Wheels. On Pincer’s behalf I’d applied for their services, but the day they showed up, she threatened to shoot if they didn’t vacate the premises immediately. Someone had seen her wielding an object that looked like a bazooka. That led to a complaint to the police, which led to Adult Protective Services, which led to the involvement of a woman by the name of Ruth Perry, who warned me there would be swift consequences if we didn’t disarm her and provide for her needs immediately.

Now the pitcher came, along with our glasses rimmed with salt. Burt poured, and soon we were clinking the glasses together and saying cheers, with the camaraderie of soldiers on the eve of battle. The margarita was great. I was glad Burt had recognized the necessity of it. He’d also ordered nachos and guacamole as a starter and was digging into both with gusto.

Under the influence, Burt began to rhapsodize about my grandmother.“ She’s a great lady, whatever you say at the end of the day,” he said. “A great lady. I’ve learned a lot from her. She’s one of the world’s great people,” he said, to my surprise.

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