Friday, May 22, 2009

Ok. Yes.

I did it.

I ate the them. Whatever those sweet, oaty things were that you left on top of the hot cooking box. Yeah. Ate 'em. Made my ears itchy afterward, but hey. You only live once.

I assume - and maybe I'm making an ass out of u and me when I do so - when you leave something so obviously yummy and right in my reach, that it must be for me. I hear, "There, Ceece, I'll just put these up here for you.", (or is that just in my mind? Probably.) Then I see that look on your face and you say "WhatdidyouDOOOOO" all stern, and it occurs to me maybe those sweets weren't for me. Well, what the hell. I heard you complaining anyway that they were too crispy. If you'd have asked me I'd have told you they were just fine, both plain and soaked in my water bowl.

What? You like my hat? Haha. I wasn't too happy about that one. However my people have found that given the right motivation, like food or BEER, I will wear just about anything on my head and sit still for a picture. It makes them happy - and that, my friends, is my sole purpose in this life.

I study my people. Dad and the little one especially. My eyes follow Dad around the room. If he goes too far, I need to follow him to see if he needs me. He might need me. I can tell he is comforted by my presence by the way he pats me right above my tail and calls me BoneHead. I don't know what that means, but it has the word Bone in it, so I'm pretty sure it's a good name. If Dad opens the Big Cold Box, I am THERE. In case you don't know, sometimes there is BEER in there and BEER is one of my favorite things ever. I'm actually a little embarrassed at how much I like BEER. Just the mention of it, and I'm vocalizing and pacing. They get one out and I stare, transfixed, and next thing you know, my mouth is watering. Who needs a bell? Pavlov was an asshole anyway.

The little one? She is mine. It is my job to both watch over her and keep her in line. I follow her everywhere. Well, almost everywhere. She goes to the house beside ours a lot. The one with the Little Dog With a Death Wish. I can't remember his name, so that's what I call him. What business does he have coming at me with teeth bared? Psssshh. I could dispose of you with one shake, Little Dog. Watch yourself. Anyway, the little one gets on this Big Yellow Thing quite a bit and goes away. It brings her back, but those hours seem to be interminable to me. Especially that last hour before she comes out of the Big Yellow Thing and her voice once again fills our house. I can relax again... Oh, spoke too soon! Other small people coming to the house. Gotta herd 'em, keep 'em in line.

Then there's The One That Takes Me Places. We speak to each other with our eyes, and we always seem to know what the other is thinking. She studies me as much as I study her. I am not quite sure what her role is in our den... sometimes she's there for hours and hours... days in a row. Then, sometimes, I don't see her for a couple of days. Therefore, when I do see her, I feel the need to let her know in unequivocal terms how much I missed her. I know I'm supposed to lie down before I ask for attention. I know. It's hard, though, ya know? When The One That Takes You Places arrives, you can't help but be excited. Sometimes, she fools me, and we don't go anywhere but the backyard to play JollyBall. I don't mind, though I'd rather go swimming. I think she enjoys seeing me swim almost as much as I enjoy doing it. She just stands on the dam with that big shit-eating grin on her face while I jump in, paddle, fetch, drop toy and shake... jump in, paddle, fetch, drop toy and shake. Repeat all day for all I care. I could go forever.

Speaking of shit-eating... have you ever tried it? I'm telling you... it's worth getting yelled at.

No comments:

Post a Comment