Auto Bio XII

“My Other Car is a Jaguar”

Tiggy was back in the shop two weeks ago—he’d started idling rough and after a few days employed a visual aid to shift our attention to action. Ter came home on Sunday with the announcement that my first Monday after vacation had just gotten interesting: the “check engine” light had come on.

Crap. What fresh new hell is this, Tiguan?

We arranged to have me drive him in and Ter took the limo to her office. Turned out to be little of nothing—some carbon buildup on the spark plugs was giving him hiccups, so the techs cleaned off the plugs, sold me a bottle of fuel tank cleaner, and reminded me (shame, shame) to give him supreme instead of regular unleaded gasoline. A small cost at the end of an anxious day, but I like to threaten my loved ones with their expendability.

Poking along in rush hour traffic, we approached the Jaguar dealership that dwarfs the VW shop half a block down the street. I gave him a tap on the dashboard and pointed. “See that red F-type, Tiguan? Take a good hard look and be grateful that I don’t turn you in right now.”

Hey, he doesn’t need to know that one Jag will cost three of him.

* * *

A few days later, I happened on this article. A rave review of the F-type coupe so well-written than it’s practically poetry. Sure had me salivating … until I got to the one flaw in the big cat’s form. Apparently the ergonomics aren’t that great. How disappointing. Is it enough to stop me from salivating? Nah. In my dream, the car is comfier than an old shoe.