Dog Day Afternoon
“Please, listen to me. Let me out, now! Please? Pretty please?” I whimper in a semi-begging, semi-demanding plea. Mr. Master continues to watch the latest reality show on television. Reality for me is dancing frantically, manipulating fast paced staccato steps in an attempt to not urinate all over newly vacuumed, off white carpet complete with a bouquet fragrance. I always get in trouble when I do a no-no. Thank goodness all I have to do is pee.
It’s one thing to do it when everyone is gone, but quite another when Survivor 100 is on. God forbid I should reek, wait make that wreak havoc behind the controller of the ever handy remote. Hey you! Is there a button on there for pet needs to go out for a few seconds? I didn’t think so.
I begin to run back and forth from master to door, master to door, wagging my bottom, anxiously relating through energetic body language this is damned important. Hellooooooooooo! What? Am I invisible?
Aw, geez. I don’t want a pat on the head, dammit, get up and let me out! I can’t be held responsible for any accident caused by lack of enthusiasm on your part to open that damn door, capiche? What the hell. I’m not even Italian. That’s what happens when frenzy sets in.
And how many times have I heard how smart I am? Yeah right. If I’m so smart why haven’t I figured this routine better, eh? YES! Finally. Open the door, open the door, open the door. Oh man, you don’t need a beer now, do ya? Open the door, open the door. VOILA! My prayers are answered! Wow. That was a close call.
I stretch in luxurious pose on a cool ceramic entrance to guard my palatial turf - behind a glass door of course. No need to sweat the small stuff. I savor my chewy while my plush tummy relishes its secure foundation. In the background, my ears perk every time Mr. Master burps and belches between cheers mixed with curses at the screen in front of him. So much for survivor. It’s tough being a dog.
As the day progresses it becomes very clear I am being snubbed. Mr. Master side-steps every frisky attempt to block his path. Walk? Wanna walk? I could dump. I haven’t dumped yet–walk? What? Big Brother comes on now? Oh brother. What next? Do they have one for dogs? Prolly hair of the dog with my luck. Okay okay, I get the message.
Head down, I slip away unnoticed to my favorite escape to sulk and lick my wounded soul. Convinced that life as I knew it changed with the invasion of stark reality. Not the usual bumps and grinds of supposed “real life” portrayed on television, but the sure and undeniable certainty Mr. Master was never going to learn the tricks I’ve demonstrated since puppyhood. Easing my still agile body underneath a bed, I cradle my head on paws and fall into a pouting, fitful doze.
“Buddy? Where are you, bud?”
Damn that tail. I try my best to keep my carcass still. I have yet to pardon Mr. Master. He must beg. He must roll over. He must fetch until I sanction forgiveness.
“Buddy, guess who’s here?”
“Buddy? Come out, Lily Girl is here.”
Drat. That witless cat. My nemesis. I inch further under the bed.
“There you are, Buddy. Come out.” Mr. Master issued a no nonsense command. “Buddy. Here. Now.”
Uh oh. He means business. I creep backwards, slow as thick molasses. Maybe Lily Girl will go climb a tree or....
“Buddy!” Loud and clear, followed by an apologetic, “I don’t know what’s wrong with him, he’s been behaving weird all day.”
What? Mr. Master doesn’t know what’s wrong with me? I’ve been behaving weird? Yeah right. Was it me playing Russian roulette with the remote? Was it me who refused a walk in the glorious sunshine? Was it me who....
“There you are, ol’ boy. Come say hi to Debbie and Lily Girl. Don’t give me that sad oh-poor-me look, Buddy. Get over here. Now.”
There he goes again. The voice beyond reason. The voice of controlled authority.
I drag myself off my less than cheerful haunch and poke nose to nose with Lily Girl with a snorting hey, girl.
Why am I not surprised she responds with a swipe of a sharp clawed paw?
Geez, Lily. It’s not like I’m happy to see you are anything. Keep your animosity to yourself. I have to. Get with the program. Our people are watching.
“Aren’t they cute together?” Ms. Mistress sighs. “I just knew they’d be friends.”
“They didn’t really have a choice, now did they?” Mr. Master chimes in. “I’ll have to admit though, I’m amazed Buddy let’s Lily Girl get at him that way.”
Amazed? AMAZED? What - you drug me over, demanded I be civil no matter what. The damn little monster comes at me and I have no choice but to sit here because I have been taught manners? Because my master makes me mind and hers lets her be a...a....cat? Puh-leeze. Amazed, my ass.
“It’s good though, right? Since we will all be together soon?” A sultry whisper followed by a resounding smooch on Mr. Master’s eager lips.
Wait! Don’t I have a say? Does Ms. Mistress know you watch reality television? Does she know you belch and burp beer 24/7? Does she know you are a slob and only clean when she and IT are coming over? Does she.....
“Yeah, it won’t be long. Wanna put ‘em in the garage while we go get a little lovin’? Mr. Master suggests through a drooling murmur.
“Buddy, Lilly Girl–to the garage.” Voices integrate in harmony.
Lily Girl looks around with adventurous eyes. I gauge her reaction. Damn. Forlorn. I stretch flat to the cool cement. Lily Girl snuggles by my side to seek comfort and protection.
Hmmmm. Maybe this will work after all.