We’re having a discussion. I want Wilson to go to school to become a Therapy Dog. An elder statesman, so to speak. He could shake hands with the gentlemen and give slurpy kisses to all the babies. He could smile at the ladies and schmooze with the boys down at the bowling alley. He could roll over and … and … FETCH things. What could be more noble? He could give … THERAPY. It’s almost like he’d be “my Son the Doctor, or “my Son the Senator.”
Wilson, however, wants only to work in the food industry. Since flipping hamburgers was recently reclassified as “manufacturing,” he argues he’d be serving others, never mind the drooling quality control he’d assert over every product. See? He’s already bought his hairnet. HIS HAIRNET FOR GOD’S SAKE.
Oh, where did I go wrong?