With a cone shaped birthday hat taped to my crate and enough newspaper piled under me to absorb all the urine in a ballpark men’s room during the seventh inning stretch, I was loaded onto my “pet friendly” (ha!) flight to Chicago, off to meet the lady who had fallen in love with my picture on line. As flattered as I was I still felt a little dirty — kind of like a mail order bride. I may be devastatingly handsome, but my splendor runs deep.Things looked grim the day before, after my final health check. As it turns out, I was already showing signs of an underbite. Worried it could be a deal killer, they called the lady in Chicago to deliver the news, but apparently she was okay with it. No surprise there, having seen pictures of my predecessor, the puggle. Compared to him I look like Marie Osmond (after the weight loss, of course). I was encouraged, though. Maybe the lady in Chicago wasn’t as shallow as I had thought.
I am no stranger to unpleasantness, but the icy Midwestern rain that greeted me was depressing, The lady from Chicago seemed nice enough, and she could not wait to coax me out of the security of my aromatic, urine saturated crate. I know she meant well, but I’ve always had a healthy suspicion of humans, like the guy with the white mustache and beard who showed up early on to lop off my tail. I’ve heard lots of different stories about strange bearded men and their strange rituals, and I was pretty sure he wasn’t Santa Claus. I crossed my hind legs really tight, just in case he got scissor happy.
It’s been five months now, and the lady in Chicago and I have a pretty solid relationship. She thinks of me as the man of the house, which can me daunting at times, but at least I still have my equipment. It took me a while to pee over all the vestiges of my predecessor with the bad teeth, but my work, in that regard, is done, and the bedroom carpet smells distinctly and delightfully like me. I pretend not to notice, but every once in a while I put my nose to the ground, so to speak, and take a good long whiff. It’s what I imagine a subway station would smell like if it were named for me.
I am a redneck by birth, but I am being raised a Jewish prince. When I attempt the trademark boxer boxing moves (put em up! put em up), I sense folks aren’t taking me all that seriously. I have already been shipped off once to “manners school” — which is more like a Maoist reeducation camp — and live in constant fear of the yellow zapper. Luckily, the lady in Chicago is so terrified she’ll accidentally electrocute me that she rarely takes it with her when we go on our walks. She just clips on the collar with the two prongs and thinks she’s tricking me. Works for her, works for me. I’m happy to act as if I’ve had a lobotomy and walk calmly while I enjoy the gentle massage of the deactivated prongs, and she deludes herself into thinking she’s both smart and humane. Whatever.
Nap time….
