Daily Hits of Happy: August 8, 2020 - 330

Be Careful What You Joke About

Remember how I kept getting a hit on my blog from Russia, and joked that it was probably Putin?

Well, that little joke led to me having a very dramatic dream about Putin coming to the house. It was actually scary. (As having a crazed despot in your home would naturally be.)

Still, I haven't been able to stop thinking of the funnier possibilities of such an occasion. Here's a very embellished version of my dream:

Doing Shots With the Guy Who Calls All The Shots

The doorbell rings.

'That's funny.' I think. 'Today's the only day in the last decade when I'm not expecting an Amazon delivery. What in the world could it be?'

Of course, I make no move toward the door. Instead, I pick up my phone and look at the security system app (aka the Amazon-delivery-checker).

The camera reveals that there are several men in black suits standing on the front porch.

'Huh. They're too old to be Mormon elders.'

I still don't make a move. Answering the door isn't really my thing. I have to be expecting someone. Someone that I really like. Even then, I have to feel like seeing someone. Plus I have to not be in the bathtub. That cuts out a lot of door-answering. And I have to be dressed. In real clothes.

So, obviously, most of the time I don't even check to see who it is.

---

But I'm feeling curious this particular day, so I look out to the street through the lace curtains, I check things out from the safe distance of the dining room, so as to go undetected.

---

There must be 6 or 7 black sedans and SUVs lining the street. One of the vehicles has small flags mounted on the front like the diplomat cars that were forever parked illegally all over Manhattan. There are also a few police cars at either end of the block with their lights flashing.

'Huh. That's weird.'

'And what's going on over at the neighbors?' I inch a little further towards the living room. I can just make out the shirtless belly of our across-the-street neighbor. (Why do only the oldest and least attractive men like to go around without their shirts on?)

He seems to be mouthing off at someone, which is par for the course. But this time there's someone actually listening. Two more black-suited men are standing in front of him. As I watch, one of the men spins the neighbor around and has him splayed across the trunk of a car. The other guy pulls a gun out and holds it to my neighbor's head.

My neighbor, shuts his mouth.

'Wow. I've never seen that.'

'Who are these people?'

The doorbell rings again. I continue to ignore it.

...but then the door opens and several men in black enter the living room.

---

'What?' Last time I noticed, Michael was in the back yard. Has he come around the front and let them in?' (Michael's an extrovert and would no more ignore a doorbell or phone ringing than I'd pass up pie.). I walk into the living room.

Michael is not with the men.

They commence moving around the room, looking behind the couches, and talking into their wrists in a language I can't identify.

---

"Who are you?" I ask as one comes over and pats me down. "What are you doing?!"

"We have brought zee Prezident to visit you. Yah. The prezident of Russia. He vants to meet you."

...and sure enough; In walks Vladimir Putin, himself.

Could Be Worse

Sure, he probably has people killed on the regular. He may oppress the citizens of Russia. But, as fans go, he's really very pleasant. Super complimentary!

He spent a lot of the visit telling me about his favorite posts: The one I wrote about him is his very favorite, as you might expect. But I was surprised to hear he loves absolutely anything I've ever written about Ella.

"How she hid from you for to not be going to zee veterinarian! Ha! She is very funny! I also like to hear about her travel experiences to Mexico. Maybe you bring her to my country someday since she now knows how to go on zee planes, yes?"

---

Then we all did vodka shots. Mr. Putin was disappointed I had Skyy and not Stoli but drank it anyway. Those Russians can really throw back the vodka. Between Vlad (he wanted me to call him Vlad), the KGB agents, and me, our bottle was gone pretty fast.

Vlad wanted to get a photo taken with me...he was a little shy to ask me. (Isn't that cute?). Also, he wanted me to sign his little autograph book.

Meanwhile, one of the agents went around the house, shaking Ella's treat jar trying to draw her out.

Ella made herself scarce from the first moment the doorbell rang and continued to hide.

Isn't that just so 'Ella'? She didn't feel the need to put herself out just because a dictator wanted an audience with her.

Ella and Vlad: Who Wears Their Dictatorship Better?

Eventually, Ella was found and dragged in, clawing and hissing, so Vlad could take a picture with her too.

Putin was surprisingly patient with her...even after she took a few swipes at him and drew quite a bit of blood.

---

Before he left, he made a big point to say that I must keep writing.

I was flattered at first.

But, then a little scared. He really emphasized the word 'must.'

He said again how much he enjoys my posts. Then said he'd be very disappointed if I stopped, and that he wouldn't want my little kitty to ever become an orphan. (Yipes. Tyrants as fans can be a problem.)

Anyhow, one of his assistants whispered something in his ear, and they all left as quickly as they arrived.