The outside security light flashes on.  It has been defunct for a number of years, but nothing around here seems to stay either fixed or broken.  A twilight zone constantly in flux.  The light reflects into the kitchen window sending the puppy into dire straits.

“It’s aliens,” the puppy screams.  “They’re coming for me because I am sooooo beautiful.”  She’s been watching far too many Grade B horror movies.  “Save me!  It’s aliens!”

“No it’s not.  It’s just a light.  We’re not in New Mexico.  Don’t worry.”

“What’s New Mexico?  Is it Taco Bell?”

“Well, in a way, yes.  But aliens don’t come to Maine.”

“Why, why, why, why not.  What about the sign?”  The puppy races around the kitchen, frantically bouncing on the table to glance out the window, recoiling from the light, but far too intrigued to exit for the safety of another room.

“What sign?”  I instantly regret asking.  I sense a puppy-tirade in the making.  

“You know.”  She rolls her eyes and sighs her “you-stupid-fool” sigh.  “That sign on the road about how this is the way life should be.  Wouldn’t the aliens see that and want to come here?” 

Every time we drive back into Maine, the puppy insists I read her the propaganda highway sign extolling the state’s virtues, thereby reinforcing her own exalted opinion of herself and her surroundings.  “Maine – the way life should be.”  The synapses in her puppy brain are truly remarkable in their elasticity.  Aliens, Taco Bell, Maine signage.  What next?

I attempt to reason with her.  “Aliens don’t read English.  They only read, well I don’t know what, but I’m sure they would ignore that sign.” 

“What about the aliens’ license plates?  What kind do they have?  What about lobsters, and chickadees, and loons? 

“What about them?”  The State of Maine boasts a colorful assortment of local critters decorating our license plates with even more possibilities promised.  The potential of a Doberman plate has never been mentioned.

“Well, I just bet aliens would have the loon plates.  I like loons.  Loons, loons, loons.  It’s a funny word.  I bet aliens know all about loons.”

They probably do.  As do I.

“I just remembered I like Taco Bell.  I could use a burrito.  Buy me one.  Right now.  Before the aliens come back.”

Perhaps I could make her a tinfoil hat.