It's Jake's Fault

"Where were you?" Jenny Newland asked, her hands in rubber gloves, dug in akimbo.

"They were way behind. New vampire today. She couldn't find a vein in a gold mine."

"But I expected you to be gone about 30 minutes. I decided to clean while you were out, so you and your stupid walker wouldn't be in the way. Here you are 2 hours later, and I've dusted the whole house, scrubbed the kitchen floor on my hand and knees, put the recycling in the garage. You've just about given me a heart attack."

"It wasn't me," said Jake. "It was the clinic. They were behind..."

Jenny wasn't listening. "You've made me too tired to cook. You'll have to take me out to Muddy Butts."

"It's not Muddy Butts, Jenny. It's Buddy Mutts, and you can't go there unless you bring your dog."

"So we'll borrow Shingles from the Wembleys. He'll be glad to go, save him from having to hide from Clara."

"I still don't see why it's my fault," cried Jake.

Married 52 years, and he hasn't learned a thing.