Saturday, December 24, 2005

Happy Cone Day! (My Dog is a Dog)

My dog is a cone-head.

This wasn’t my dream for him. This wasn’t what I planned when he was a pup. My dog, in dog years, is seventy years old, but he thinks he’s a puppy. No—I think he thinks he’s a puppy. Yes—I constantly endow my dog with a wondrous web of thoughts and feelings. He’s Shakespeare without a pen. He’s Beethoven without a piano. He’s a liberal progressive pacifist—no, no, no! Why can’t I seem to remember this one fixed fact: my dog is dog.

My dog is a con-artist.

You don’t believe me? It’s all in my head, you say. But you haven’t seen how he droops before me (after rolling his body joyfully in poo) and lowers his sober shoulders in a poignant posture of remorse, and then, when I turn away, he smirks—oh, yes, I spy him peripherally!—my own dog smirks at my gross gullibility.

My dog is a therapist.

When I cry (yes, I do cry), my dog nuzzles my hand and licks my fingers. No, it’s not the salt he craves—or the praise he receives once he’s cheered me—or the treat he enjoys afterwards. It’s just his natural humanity—strike that!—natural sensitivity. He listens to my grievances and nods sympathetically (or else, nods off). Well, he comforts me. Shall we leave it at that?

My dog makes me a champion (or Don Quixote).

When the wind whistles at my window, my dog hides behind me, pressing his cold nose between my bare ankles. So when this very same wind starts knocking at the door, I find myself rising with ire. How dare you breeze by like this! How dare you terrorize my dog with your blustery manner and careless ways!

I used to love a tempestuous gust. Stormy nights were romantic, once upon a time. But now I shake my fist (figuratively, er, most of the time) at this flighty foe.

My dog is mine.

Of course, he forgets. Occasionally. Often. He runs off with those too-friendly dog-walkers. Despite everything I’ve told him about nice-people! And he ends up lolling on a porch a few houses down. He collapses there with laughing eyes, as if that house is His Home; that neighbor, His Master.

“You’re Mine,” I tell him when I retrieve him.

He humors me with a contrite expression. But he’ll go again, his brightened eyes tell me, and again, and again, because…

My dog is a dog. He belongs to no one.

2 repartee:

Anonymous Anonymous wrote...

Thank you for this! It made me smile and laugh out loud. Your pooch is a cutie. Love, fancypancakes

1/01/2006 7:53 PM  
Blogger frankengirl wrote...

Hello, Fancy P! Yes, doggie is definitely milking his cutie-cone-state. ;) Happy new year to you & Mr. Fancy P! Love, FG

1/02/2006 9:58 AM  

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