Report card blues

Among the indignities I no longer suffer now that I’ve left the city for the hinterland are performance evaluations.

Unfortunately, however, after years of being summoned to the boss’s office for an annual sit-down Without a one-to-10 scoring system how am I to know how I’m doing. Have I met my goals for the year? Have I shown initiative?

Do I get along with my co-workers?

Oh, yeah. I no longer have any co-workers.

Unless you count my wife, and let’s not go there.

I’d rather be judged by my dogs, who, if given the chance, would jump at an opportunity to evaluate me.

Or so I thought.

But after broaching the subject with Spot, my 3-year-old springer bitch, I was told the process was flawed.

I should evaluate her, not the other way around, she said. Even under the cover of anonymity, an underling’s written opinion of her boss is seldom honest, Spot told me. The paper trail, you know?

I agreed, but after tossing her a biscuit and hinting that there might be more where that one came from, she said she’d give it a shot anyway.

Her brother Jem quit licking himself and agreed to participate too, if biscuits were involved.

Did I meet or exceed my goals for the year, I asked them.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Spot said. “You didn’t even come close. You shot more birds when you had a fulltime job.”

“That’s certainly an area in which we’d like to see some improvement,” Jem told me as I squirmed uncomfortably in my chair.

How about my willingness to take on new tasks, I asked?

“Like what?” Spot queried.

“Like retrieving that goose you and Jem wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole,” I shot back.

“That’s another thing we’d like to talk to you about,” Jem said. “Your quick temper. Maybe you should consider counseling.”

Maybe you should consider neutering, I thought, but only smiled wanly at the pup and nodded my head in agreement.

Let’s move on to initiative in learning to operate new equipment, I said.

“You sure you want to go there? Spot asked.

“Why? Is there a problem? I said, making a point of controlling my voice.

Both dogs looked away in disgust and I could feel my face turning red.

“One word,” Spot said. “GPS.”

“That’s three words,” I told her.

She ignored the sarcasm.

“It’s still in the box,” Jem chirped. “You don’t have a clue how to use it.”

“Just like the iPod,” Spot said. “And you just recently learned how to use your cell phone.”

A bead of sweat trickled down my ribs as I offered the dogs my thanks for their honest evaluation and promised to try harder next year.

Spot closed her eyes and went back to sleep on the couch and I could tell without looking that Jem was licking himself again.

I rose and left the room. Suddenly I wasn’t missing those performance evaluations so much after all.