It’s been a while since I’ve heard my name screamed. Years, really, and it wouldn’t have been so memorable, I think, had those two piercing syllables not been hitchhiking on the back of a half empty vodka bottle, and aimed about an inch or two below my graying widow’s peak.
Tonight I heard my name screamed. Squeaked would probably be a better adjective had it lacked a bit of volume. I wasn’t even first choice, which, given the situation, wouldn’t have been a bad thing.
We had a Rottweiler loose in the hospital.
Lyrical Fool 