I've been caring for a narcoleptic poodle and she's making me suspicious.
At first I was convinced she was about as intelligent as a doorknob who you also had the privilege of feeding, walking, and petting. She had been biting her tail and had her head in one of those oversized clear plastic cones to make sure she couldn't reach it. "Stop biting your stupid tail stupid dog. It's not good for you. Stopit how hard is that?" I say while watching TV eating brownies surfing the internet and drinking a glass of wine.
Dog follows me around the house, even into the bathroom, and cocks her head to the side perplexedly like I just sprouted alien antennae when I say "Go. Get out. Just because you can shit in the middle of the Stop and Shop parkinglot at rushhour doesn't mean that this is a spectator sport." She cocks her head to the other side. I do whatever shooing I can from the toilet, then resort to hurling a roll of toilet paper at her, then lock the door. I feel guilty about it the rest of the day because she hangs her head like she's done something wrong.
Dog likes to sniff things and tugs at the leash powerfully when she decides that prime sniffing loations are behind us. "This way! Eiw that's a dead bird! Come ON stupid dog." She gives up after a while but still seems perfectly satisfied with herself by the end of the walk having smelled, pooped, and smelled lots of poop, and lies down for some tail gnawing or some squeezy toy chewing or some shut eye.
Dog watches me get dressed and follows me back and forth from laundry to mirror to closet to mirror to bathroom to mirror to closet. I feel like a tour guide and suddenly feel an aggravating pressure to be doing something more exciting than color coordinating. Dog has no clothes and a floofy poodle haircut but that wasn't my decision and presumably not her's either.
Dog catches me masturbating and thinks this too is a spectator sport. It's beyond awkward and the mood is beyond ruined and Dog seems to think we are playing a game. Dog offers me her squeezy toy. I do not return the gesture.
Dog does not procrastinate.
My Dad says his philosophy on life is based on his dead dog Barker. Barker insisted on healthy cardio and spending time in nature, and not letting the man get you down. One day in the park Barker made friends with the dog of a beautiful lady who turned out to be my mother. Barker sure could pick 'em, Dad says.
My mother is suspicious of anyone who the monkey (see note) does not trust. My mother says the monkey can smell dishonesty. My mother also says the monkey might be psychic. Sometimes the monkey drinks her own urine.
Sometimes I hate my writing so much it makes me sick to even approach the computer letalone face the screen and come to terms with how much more I have to finish. I squeeze my theighs, enraged at my inefficiency, til white thumbprints appear. I watch the blood fill them in as a temporary distraction from the lame lame lameness of how lame everything is.
Dog offers me her squeezy toy.
We take a walk. She cocks her head.
I wonder what Dog is thinking as Dog wonders what I am thinking and I realize that we are thinking the same thing. And I wonder which of us is slumming it. And I don't think it's me.
Monkey (Amelia) has lived with my mom for 23 years. 2 years longer than she's had me. Monkey gets the good towels.