On your first Thanksgiving, you clearly felt blessed by your cousin Josie. So blessed, in fact, that you acted on your perceptions in the living room in front of the children. (The words, “Aunt Nina, Flash plays funny!” will forever echo in my head, and no doubt prompted some uncomfortable conversations in each of my brothers’ households.) You clearly have forgotten how cold the snow was, when you were thrown out into it when it was 15 degrees below zero. Did you also forget the little procedure as soon as we got home which ended in the removal of your boy bits?
Fast forward 7 years. New cousin Trudy, no children present, and you clearly felt emboldened enough to invite her into your bed. Right there in the living room in front of all of us. And she’s only a puppy, certainly making it a crime no matter what state you live in. Forgive me, but that just ain’t right, no matter who you are. Consider yourself separated.
As a child, it was not uncommon for me to spend the night in the hayloft of the barn with 40 of my closest cousins. I grew up in Butte, Montana, where a typical night of entertainment in high school was a tire iron fight on the main drag. I worked my way through school in bars and restaurants, many of them in areas of limited sophistication. I had an internship in the ER, working with people with mental illness and substance abuse problems in moments of crisis. I presently serve Alzheimer’s patients for a living. I have been married for 30 years. I really was beginning to think I had probably seen everything. Until now.
Where in the name of all that is Holy did you find the loofa, and what process in your little pea brain made you think it was a dog toy? Did you use it to scrub the butt feathers off of your hiney? Please tell me you did not use it on either of the cats. And most importantly, where is it now? On second thought, don’t tell me. I’m pretty sure I don’t want to know the answers to any of these questions.
Let me start by saying, you need give Nina some grandchildren. Soon. Or maybe it’s time to just put her in a home.
I was so excited this afternoon when she invited me for a walk in the park. It all started out just fine – me doing my Happy Dog Dance at the door, Nina rummaging in the bench seat for poopy sacks. I had my usual *ahem* “constitutional” as soon as we got in the park, and pranced like a Lipizzaner pony to attract attention and collect pats on the head. When we got to the playground, though, there was an ugly and unexpected turn of events. She put ME on the jungle gym. There was an awkward moment when she tried to push my rotund rumpus down the slide. Things got downright dangerous when she completely ignored the fact that I DON’T HAVE ANY THUMBS and tried to suspend me from the monkey bars.
I think the ol’ girl’s done gone ’round the bend a little bit.
At first I thought somehow the little procedure you had to remove you from the gene pool had failed. My brain fused as it tried to cope with the possibility of twice the amount of cat poop being strewn throughout the house, twice the number of nose-to-butt violations daily, and twice the amount of def-con one volume barking to alert us to the invasion of the squirrels. Then I realized the small one was waaaaaaay too well-behaved to be real. Crisis averted.
Oh, I know, I haven’t been writing as much lately, so much so that I had convinced myself you were a normal dog. I was so fixed in this delusion, in fact, that I actually thought it was a good idea to ask a friend to dog-sit while Jay and I were away this weekend. I didn’t bat an eye when she offered to take you to her house, rather than come to feed you here. I admit to having a gnawing in my gut when I got off the plane in Seattle and had a text about you rolling down the car windows on the way to her house, but it was too late to change my mind at that point.
I am strangely curious as to how this happened, and at the same time repulsed by the fact that it did happen while you were at someone else’s house. I can only imagine the private little party going on in your head when you hopped up on Amy’s table, chugged a Coors Light and took a drag on the cigarette. I wonder if you were aware she would be in contact with me, and there would be photographic evidence of the event. Then again, I wonder if it would occur to you to care that this behavior was considered socially unacceptable.
You, my dear friend, are one of the most indiscriminate beings I know when it comes to things you are willing to put in your mouth. Amongst the things I have seen you eat lo these many years: used gum laying in the gutter, fish guts, and at least three kinds of poop. I have seen you lick your butt, cat butts, dirty mud puddles, and the bottom of the barbecue. You clearly covet the trash can and all the glorious mysteries within. So why is it, then, that you react with such aversion when presented with a bright, fresh, delicious lemon?