Take my cab,or the cat don't get fed.
Every day my old bud Sneaks watches as the layers of cab gear are assembled, worn, tossed in a duffel, and slung over the shoulder as I make my way out for a twelve hour shift. She always gives me that impish expression, suggesting it really would be fine should I loiter and run a stick through the door. But I always remind her, to work I must go- in order that we continue the lifestyle to which we are accustomed. Sometimes I thank God, she can't talk.