John Saunders, the White Anglo-Saxon Ravi Shankar, honked repeatedly as he edged his Volvo backwards out of the driveway of his North Toronto semi-detached. Turning his head, he glanced over at his daughter Britney in her 5-point harness, and Sir Pantsalot, the Saunder's family year-old Afghan Hound.
A Mozart rondo faded to the voice of Peter Togni:
"..ewelbox surprise for today..."
"Daddy, I want some candy."
"Honey, we'll get you some candy once Sir Pantsalot gets his shots at the vet."
The dog looked up at him suddenly, dropping his Bark and Fitz chew toy onto the floor.
"Damn..."
Sir Pantsalot sat straight up, and began to howl in the style of a branded cow. He quickly tired of howling, and settled upon a mix of heavy panting and wild barking, while pacing the leather bench like an expectant father.
"Damn! Damn! Damn!" Britney screamed. "Shut up supantslot! Shut up!"
Her anger quickly turned to tears. In her rage, she realised that the only solution to the noise would be to strike the Sir Pantsalot with her right hand, sticky from a recently consumed bag of Fruit Gushers.
The dog, equally frustrated by his circumstance, returned her volley by biting her on the hand. Britney screamed.
John sighed, and thought to himself, "This was no way to start the Saturday drive to Starbucks..."
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