So. Today was the day.

The ninety minute dental appointment for the eighty minute dental procedure. The one where the dentist told his staff to add ten minutes to my time because "we'll talk for at least that."

Well, at the onset, we decided to do just half the procedure, and wait a month or so for the rest.

So. Half of eighty minutes, with ten minutes added on for conversation, is a total of fifty minutes, right?

Looked at my watch as I walked out.

Was in there for an hour and fifty minutes. With no complications with the teeth. The dental work went smooth and, yes, painless.

But yeah. We talked for an extra hour. About Abraham Lincoln and his Cabinet, and about bighorn sheep. And eldest son. And some about teeth, too.

Fortunately all the extra time came out of his lunch hour.

My next appointment? The one for the other six teeth, the second half of an eighty-minute procedure (1/2 of 80 minutes = 40 minutes)?

He told her to reserve an hour.

Today was also three years.

Three years to the day for the return of the lost little maskless heeler to our pack. A date she met with trauma and fear. Not for fear of being lost in the wilds, no.

Fear of getting her butt cleaned yet again. We have so traumatized this poor little girl, after dinner she dug a bed under the lilac bush and curled up for the night outside, rather than risk coming back in for another butt cleaning.

As we finally got her settled in to bed, sleeping in between the wife's legs as usual, the wife mentioned...

"I listened to your message again, today."

The message I left on her office phone three years ago, as I tried to drive down the interstate and call her, while at the same time not letting loose my grip on the skinny little cold, found heeler on the seat beside me.

I remember how tearful that message was on my end.

The remarkable thing about this, though, is not that the wife listened to it again today.

What is remarkable is that she has the message at all.

Because their office system deletes all phone messages automatically after one month.

So, for the past three years, the wife has been forwarding that message on to herself, at least once a month.

Every month.