Girl Talk: Whereupon Alice’s Scam Is Exposed

Scramble, scramble. Paw, paw, nose, nose.

“Dangit,” Macy barked. “I can’t do this!”

“Whatcha got going on there, Crazypie?” Alice asked as she sauntered into the bedroom.

“Mom put our tennis balls under this boxy-thingy. I can see them but I can’t get them back out.” Macy pawed at the crate a little more and then backed away.

“Um, let me survey this here unfortunate situation. Clearly this is a job meant for someone with my mad skills and super-genius strategic mind. I’m like Patton and Eisenhower and shit. You should have called in the Buddies of the Highest Order for a reconnaissance mission. The BHO is specially trained in matters of releasing imprisoned tennis balls but you need to have special security clearance of which you, of course, do not have. Why, back in ’06, I was like the king of reconnaissance tennis ball missions. Don’t ask me about them though because I can’t divulge BHO secrets. It’s like classified information and shit.”

“Just. Get. The. Ball. Alice!” Macy yiped.

“Cool your jets, little sis.” Alice stepped back from the crate. “The first thing to remember is that cooler heads always prevail in these types of crisis situations. Here’s the plan. Use your southpaw. Smack it right in the middle. Yeah, just like that. Now, nose it into the corner up against the wall. Tennis balls hate being put in a corner. Um….a little more. Now maybe apply some pressure to the side. Dang, I’m getting thirsty with all this hard work. Got any beer up here? The BHO does not supply this level of expertise and support for free.”

“It’s not working. I can see the ball but I can’t get it out of here. It’s driving me crazy!”

“You were already crazy but that’s another topic for another time. Try again. Use some elbow grease, prissy pants.”

“I don’t think I have elbows, do I?” Macy circled the crate, frantic.

“If your damned paw nails weren’t so girly and manicured, you’d have those balls out of there. I mean, my daggers of steel over here are registered with the CIA, the FBI, the BHO, the KGB. I could get that ball in no time.”

Macy growled at the crate. “Come on!”

“No reason to lose your head, private. The second rule of the BHO is to act like you’ve been there before but don’t say you heard that from me. The key is to act like you know exactly how to get those balls out of there. Just sort of walk around the perimeter of the crate like I’m doing and then try a quick swipe from the side. Thwack! Thwack! Like you’re making your way through enemy territory in the jungle. Yeah, back in the day I pretty much lived in the jungle, spying on shit. They didn’t call me the Viceroy for nothing. Man, I am getting mucho sleepy from all this effort. Do you think we’ve got a sleeping gas bomb in this room? I could really use a nap. How about if I just sit back for a bit while you work that on out?”

“If you think this is so easy, why don’t you do it, Vice Grip or whatever your code name is now?” Macy said, exasperated.

“Ah, grasshopper. The BHO does not ‘do’. That is rule numero tres. The BHO leads and instructs and generally takes over the world when you’re least expecting it. Remember that coup at the Fort Thomas Dog Park when all of those insurgent beagles were marching down the hill. Now that was a BHO victory, the old glory days of Alice the Palace of Newport K-Y. And right about now, I would like to give myself a victory brew followed by a victory nap, complete with victory snoring. Hey! You almost tipped it. Do that again.”

“What?” Macy said, pawing at the top of the crate. “Like this?”

The crate turned on its side, exposing two yellow tennis balls.

“Oh yeah, now that’s what I’m talking about. Nice work, chieftan.”

“The BHO saves the day again. Now let me just help myself to one of these puppies. I think I’ll take mine right on up here on the bed. I’m exhausted from all of that coaching.”