The Artist was out front with the weed whacker, clearing up the overgrowth along the driveway. Duchess didn’t know what to make of it. She crouched on the back of the couch, watching him out the front window. When he moved to the side of the house, she ran over to the side door to watch from there.
The Director strolled by and attempted to pet her. She jumped about a foot and scooted out of reach.
“She’s all discombobulated,” I told him.
Seems he’d never heard that word before. “What’s combobulated?” he asked, laughing.
“It’s discombobulated,” I clarified, “I don’t believe combobulated is a word. It means she’s confused and disoriented. The Artist has the weed whacker out and it’s freaking her a little bit.”
“I guess that’s one of those words that always has dis in front of it,” he said.
“Yep. Kind of like I’ve never heard of anyone being gruntled.”
He was giggling for five minutes over that one.
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