Those of us who own animals have probably wondered what they would say in certain situations; the older I have grown, the more often this thought occurs to me.
My horse Cricket, who left this earth for Horse Heaven, unless other horses have had a say in who gets in and who does not, certainly would have asked me why we had to wait until Hizzoner’s father was ready to ride. The conversation may have gone like this:
Ok, Cheri. You have tightened the cruel cinch, put that lousy cold bit in my old mouth, slapped my butt for good luck, and hoisted your hundred-plus pounds onto my wide back. We are ready to go, aren’t we?
Be patient, Cricket. Stop pawing the ground, first right, then left, then dust, then mild impatience, then head-throwing, and then more dancing, dust, and anxiety. Stop that now!
Ok, Cheri. Who does that man think he is?
He’s the one whose barn you sleep in, the one who orders your hay, your vet, your manicures. In short, he’s the reason you are here. And he’s a fiddler-not the type that has musical talent but rather the type who wants everything just so.
My dog Dinah, who is thankfully still wandering this earth, despite having eaten everything from rats to paper towels, certainly would participate in the following conversations:
Ok, Cheri. I’m wondering about that contraption called the Central Vac. You know I’m deathly afraid of vacuums and leaf blowers, but since you and Hizzoner remodeled the kitchen–damnit, the only place I am allowed in this whole stinkin’ house–what’s with that secret noisy opening under the new dishwasher?
I’m not sure to what you are referring o’ furry one.
Very funny. LOL. That place under the new dishwasher that you keep kicking when trying to Swiffer my hair. Suddenly, the peacefulness of my space ruptures into suction. Is that a secret vacuum? I’ve noticed the glee on your face.
Oh that. Yes, Dinah, that is a place where some of your shedded hair can be eliminated. The other hairs, of course, are stuck to my black sweat pants, black Yoga pants, black socks and (God forbid) Hizzoner’s pants.
I would also like to broach the subject of my meals. Why am I relegated to canned low-fat gastrointestinal food when your grilled halibut topped with crispy shallots smells so much better?
Dinah dear, your diet changed when your Aunt Sara observed that your head had shrunk.
Dinah, sometimes we don’t see ourselves as we really are– overweight, aging, slouching, greying, wrinkling hunks of protoplasm. I did not see how fat (sorry, let’s tell it as it was) you had become thanks to Hizzoner’s tossing you sesame stix, cookies, Triscuits, scraps, and Yahuda Matzohs. Although he isn’t a dog lover, he is a food lover and to see you there, salivating all over his slippers while he tries to relax after a grueling day dealing with greedy and acrimonious types and BART–well, he’s to blame for your new diet.
Thanks. That doesn’t really address my problem, but since I have your ear, I’d like to complain about my bed, a cheap version of a memory foam luxury that I saw at Pet Smart last month. I noticed that you were looking at the prices of these beds. Gee, I seem to remember a large truck pulling down into our driveway last fall to deliver a Tempur-Pedic to you and Hizzoner. You didn’t even blink when ordering that bed. I know; I heard your conversation.
Dinah, your visit to the veterinary ER cost us a small fortune last May, so your expenses are on a budget.
I saw that picture of your sister’s dog Buca asleep on HER BED. My feelings are hurt. Let’s end it with that.
And also, since I was a puppy, I have been forced to listen to Frank Sinatra and Ella Fitzgerald way too early in the morning.
Tell Hizzoner that!