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A Different Love Story
I remember the day I met my mistress clearly. It was love at first sight. When I
spotted her, I did everything I could to get her to look at me. I played it
cool, smiled and made eyes at her. Confidence works. She took one look at my
sleek, well muscled body, my brown eyes and long lashes, and she was hooked. We
went home together twenty minutes later. Neither of us ever looked back. We’ve
been committed to each other for six years.
Sure, I know what the others were saying, “Why him? What’s he got that we
haven’t got?” Nothing really. It was a matter of picking her out from the crowd
and focusing my powers to get her to cross the room and realize she was in love.
When Julie and I became partners for life, as I like to think of it, it was the
two of us against the world. Before you could say “Bob’s your uncle” we
established territory and routines. Come to think of it, maybe that’s why she
named me "Bob". She pays the bills and pampers me to the best of her ability; I do
all of the things she won’t do for herself.
Oh, you might think that I’ve got it easy and I don’t take my responsibilities
to her seriously. I do. Just because I’m a terrier-poodle mix doesn’t mean that
I don’t have responsibilities. For the last six years, I’ve protected her from
untold numbers of cats who wanted to use her flowers as a sandbox, numerous
newspapers that were in danger of being unopened and unread, and every delivery
person who has knocked on our door.
My most solemn responsibility? Kitchen duty. I lay in front of the stove
whenever she’s cooking. If I’m not there, she might forget to stir something and
then I have to deal with the burned odor that stays in the air for hours. Not
only do I keep the floor next to the stove warm, which is surely why it works as
well as it does, but I am in charge of quality control. Just the other night she
made stir-fried vegetables and she forgot to use the glaze. After she slipped me
a piece of celery, which did NOT meet the taste test, my expression alone led
her to realize what she’d forgotten and correct the dish.
What’s the worst of my many jobs? The Christmas letter. The Christmas letter is
the worst of all the torments put together. Julie spends days going over all of
my adventures for the year: the men I’ve nipped at, the garbage I examined for
tantalizing titbits while sunning myself on the living room carpet, the trips to
the dog park to introduce her to new people. After she has put the epic
together, she won’t mail it unless there’s a picture of yours truly in a Santa
suit included.
Normally, I’ll pose all day long for pictures provided that she’s got little
liver treats or hot-dog bits for me. I can look adorable for hours on end when I
don’t have to get all dressed up and be trotted in front of a stranger who
doesn’t know a hill of beans about good dog biscuits and then puts me in the
arms of a stranger in a matching red suit. To make matters worse, my little
Santa suit binds under the arms and the hat tends to flop into my eyes so I
can’t see clearly. Once everyone thinks I look properly cute, the photographer
talks baby-talk to me until I pay attention.
Sometimes I’m there, being touched and fondled by a strange man for several
minutes. It’s degrading. The year I wiggled so much she had to sit on Santa’s
lap so she could hold me still began a series of pictures together.
That particular Christmas she got Mitch. It turned out that he was in the
costume and he liked how she wiggled on his lap so much he tried to take her
home that very day.
Normally, I’m a very sharing kind of a dog. I share my tennis ball at the park
with the humans who forget to bring toys for their puppies. I would share any
cats I find in the backyard with Julie; I did it once and her screams were
deafening. I let her put her head on my pillow at night. I even let her use most
of the blankets on the bed because when she gets cold, no one sleeps well and I
look awful when I get bags under my eyes.
Sharing with Mitch is a horse of a different color. He doesn’t divvy up his
table scraps. He has a misguided notion that a pillow should only comfort one
head at a time. The first time he slept with us, he got Julie so cold she made
miserable noises. Doesn’t he understand that when Julie doesn’t sleep no one
does? Every time I tried to perform my valet service of acting as his personal
towel warmer, he made unkind comments about the color of my fur and acted like I
might have fleas. Fleas? Please. Julie takes me to the groomer once a month and
I have never ever had a flea, much less a tick.
The first Christmas with Mitch, Julie did help me get my own back. Mitch came
over and saw the tree she set up in the living room with all of the glorious
presents under it and examined them. Each package had been wrapped carefully and
had a coordinating bow on top.
“Are these all for me, Julie?” Mitch asked with a smile. “We haven’t been dating
all that long.”
Two weeks. They’d only been dating two weeks and he thought everything beneath
the tree was for him. The nerve.
“Course not.” She picked me up and held me close to her chest. My favorite spot.
I get a much better view of the room from there. “They’re all for Bob.”
“Bob? All of this for one dog?”
“Sure.” She covered my ears with her hands. “He needed some new squeaky toys and
he wore out his special cushion. And I found the cutest-”
“But he’s just a dog.”
Just a dog? Excuse me? Just. A. Dog.
“Who do you buy presents for?” she asked.
“My parents, my brother, a couple of friends. I’m hoping maybe to buy one for
you.” He smiled at her.
“My point exactly. You buy presents for people you love. People who mean
something to you. Right?”
“Yes. But he’s-”
“He’s my best friend. He’s the one male in my life who’s never let me down and
loves me just like I am. He doesn’t criticize me and I think he’s perfect.”
Actually, I do point out when dinner is late by running in little circles back
and forth from the den to my bowl in the kitchen. Once in a while, I let her
know our walks haven’t been long enough by nibbling on the end of the night
shirt she leaves on the floor when she’s in a hurry to go to work. If she ever
forgets completely about feeding me, we’ll have to have some serious
negotiations about the future of our relationship. For now, so far, so good.
“How can I get favored nation status?” Mitch asked. “I can think of a few things
I might do better than the dog.” He smiled broadly as he picked up one of the
packages and sniffed at it.
“All of the food items are on top of the fridge so he won’t get into them
early.”
“Then what’s that?”
She shrugged. “Probably his Christmas ornament.” She got me a new one every
year. My favorite is the bone with my name written on it. “I hope you didn’t
hear that, Bob.”
“Put the dog down and we’ll see if I don’t do at least one thing better than he
does.” Mitch closed the distance between them and extracted me from my
mistress’s arms and deposited me on the floor. He cupped her cheek and kissed
her.
I was fine with him kissing her until she started to make noises like she was in
pain. Then I became Bob, Dog of Action. I grabbed his pants leg and began to tug
and pull until he let her go.
“Bob. Bob, it’s okay.” Julie said as she bent down to extract the fabric from my
mouth.
“He seems jealous. Maybe he should have a playmate of his own.”
“It’s part of his job to keep me away from the big bad wolf.” She scratched my
ears and said, “That’s my best boy.”
“Definitely he should have a playmate of his own.”
And that is how Millie the cocker spaniel mix came to live with us at Easter,
but that’s another story.
Puppy Love
Giclee Print
Kennedy, Reenie
Buy at AllPosters.com
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