There’s the truth and then there’s how you remember it. So, even though your memory might not have all the facts straight, it’s what’s in your head and how you’re going to tell folks things went down when asked, so what’s more important? I wonder this because I don’t know for a truthful fact if I’d tried my hardest to pull Sparky Mumu out of that well. All the facts give us is that Sparky Mumu either fell or was tossed down a well, and now Sparky Mumu’s dead. Whose fault was it? Who the fuck was Sparky Mumu? Well, there are certain truths, undeniable facts, such as: Sparky Mumu was my boss’s pet Chihuahua. Another fact would be that I don’t like Chihuahuas. They’re fugly creatures.

As for who was the who that was at fault for Sparky Mumu’s untimely demise? Well. That’s complicated. (As is the argument rightfully made that the use of the word “untimely” is a misnomer, as Sparky Mumu’s demise was righteous and just in the sense that he was a hideous, stinky Chihuahua who had bug eyes and wouldn’t stop yapping. In fact, wait, let me get out of this parenthetical…) … In fact, the only thing upsetting to me about Sparky Mumu’s death was that taking the heat for it, however deserved, cost me my low paying but mildly insured job.

So, the gist of it was this: the distribution distributor at which I likely never worked (but did for the purposes of this tale) wouldn’t shell the bones for an office Arbor Day party. Naturally, we, the denizens of building 14, were disappointed. Actually, truth be told, in point of fact, this being as it may -- “disappointed” is too weak a word. How about “crushed”? That’s stronger than “disappointed,” right? Yes. Crushed. We were crushed. We worked our fingers to the bone getting the charts and graphs and files organized and filed for the meetings to set up the meetings we were going to have, meetings which required organized and filed charts and graphs and files if they were going to succeed as successful precursors to meetings. Aside from our paychecks, all we asked for in return was a party at least once a month. Being that the only other cause for celebration in March was St. Patrick’s Day (a day we could not celebrate due to my boss’s hatred of the Irish… something that caused me to hide my true heritage and insist I was Jewish, making my skiing accident, the one where I tragically lost my foreskin, now something of a blessing in disguise… perhaps a hood of foreskin over the face… with two eye holes… that type of disguise… what?), we had only Arbor Day for March. If you’re in, say, Hawaii, you’d think, “Arbor Day is the first Friday in November!” and you’d be right. For Hawaii. But this tale takes place in California, and we rock Arbor Day in March, dig?

As I was writing before I so rudely interrupted myself, the company wouldn’t let us have our Arbor Day party. To calm his workers, m’boss decided to have an Arbor Day shindig on his sprawling 12 acre ranch up in the Hollywood Hills. It was at said party, while we were all having fun planting a tree while consuming massive quantities of happy-inducing booze, that we ran out of water (for the ice). My boss ordered me to fetch a pail of it from the well.

Now, maybe this was my fault for keeping baloney in my pocket, but that fucking pest Sparky Mumu followed me all the way to the well, yapping and nipping at my heels. Once at the well, I had a choice to make: I either got the water then threw Sparky Mumu down the well to end his yapping once and for all, or I just got the water. Naturally, I lifted the dog with one hand and tossed him down, down, down the well (forgetting the water first, sadly).

Much to my dismay, the boss saw the whole thing and ran over to me all, “Worker #38, what the fuck have you done???”

Not wanting to get in trouble, I decided to play it all off like an accident. “Sparky Mumu jumped! Was he prone to depression?” The boss wasn’t buying it, so I decided to attempt a rescue. Knowing that my reach, bending over the well at my waist and half heartedly stretching out my arms, was only about four feet (and Sparky Mumu, after fifteen seconds of falling, hadn’t hit bottom yet), I nonetheless gave it a whirl… to no avail.

Sparky Mumu fell to a watery grave. Some ten minutes later my boss brought him up with the bucket, but the annoying, googley eyed freak dog was a dead mess. At that height for a Chihuahua, hitting water was like slamming into concrete.

And I, not surprisingly, was out of a job.

Now, that’s how I remember that day, but there’s sufficient evidence that it didn’t go down like that or, perhaps, never even happened. See? There’s truth and then there’s memory. That’s how I remember losing my job at the distribution distributor and why I, to this very day, hate Arbor Day.