How could you be so heartless

I was weak. I was. It was a symptom of my carefree youth, my conflict avoiding upbringing, but most of all, let’s face it, you grew on me. Sure, you weren’t the calmest of invaders, I could have lived without the loud sex, boisterous houseguests, and post party trash, but you were my invaders. Over our 9 month peaceful coexistence, we settled into a quasi routine of caring for the yard. You got the sand piles, and kindly left me the rotten lemons to chew on. I witnessed the birth of your first-born. Mornings, I trained him in the artfully concealing his dejections; afternoons were spent boisterously romping amidst the olfactious underbrush. I wouldn’t go as far as saying we were friends, but our relationship had matured to a level of trust and compromise I thought we were equally comfortable with.
She had raised me to make the best of what life threw my way, and I grew pleasantly accustomed to what I came to refer to as my “whiskful boarders”. Sure, I rolled over and agreed to pretty much everything you demanded, but I stood up for what really mattered: morning rounds and a place in the sun.
I made every effort to accommodate your schedules. When I knew you had company, I made sure to bring an ally so as not to impose, sometimes suppressing my primal needs for hours, waiting for her to get a craving and light up already.
Last week, I realized the Yard was once again free of its comforting sounds of hunting, baths, and other such household bustle. While I contemplated celebrating my triumph, I felt a pang of nostalgia. I was going to miss you suckers. I felt cheated. I practically raised that young pup I playfully dubbed “Tiger”. I half expected to find a note, scribbled in haste, claiming a “family emergency” or other acceptable excuse for such a precipitated departure, but to no avail. I spent hours in my Yard, lying where you had once lain, comforting my loss with your scent.
After denial came anger…I meticulously disassembled your resting spot, leaf by leaf, branch by branch, carefully disseminating any residue of that oh so familiar scent. The magnolia is blooming again, and sometimes I catch myself dropping off a petal to pay my respects, only to remember that I am once again, a sole nose.

Office dog

At the wrestling field, I hear my friends’ people complain about having to leave them home all day and what trouble they get into. I can relate to that. I also like to make my feelings clear when I’m left home alone. Luckily, she brings me to work every day. I love it!
First, we make my breakfast – rice and kibble, yuck. What she eats in her bowl looks a lot tastier, but I don’t complain, some times she’s messy, and I complain even less! Then, we make coffee and go have a cigarette on the roof. I lie in the sun uninterrupted by feline occupiers, and she makes her phone calls. We hang out on the couch for a while playing scrabble, catching up on e-mail, and dealing with whatever came up during the night.
People start showing up, and they each get their own little personal party. I run to my chair where they come and greet me. I’m a real queen, I get hugs, kisses, we play tug – they never fail to compliment me on one thing or another. Yesterday, I got props for not jumping! Once the love fest is over, I can’t help but follow them around, I feel like if I ever want a raise, I should keep them updated on the status of my work, so I bring them my ropes to collect well deserved praise on my chewing progress.
Everyone has breakfast, we have another cigarette, more coffee – she’s starting to shake a little. I settle back on the couch while everyone around me gets back to their laptops. Checking the latest youtube videos, reading their favorite blogs. She settles at her desk to begin working. Just as she’s getting reacquainted with the numbers she needs to work with, it’s time for lunch.
More coffee, more cigarettes – I work hard on my tan on sunny afternoons and preheat the couches for them when its yucky outside. Everyone is respectful of my post lunch napping and joins in a concerted effort to rock me to sleep to the rhythm of their keyboards. Ever so often, I am called upon to perform my duties to some, I provide a top notch snuggle break; others prefer that I lie on my back and stretch my paws out as high as I can reach so they can call me a weirdo and obtain an office-wide poll of what a cutie patootie I am.
She starts getting restless at this point, pacing back and forth to the kitchen, trying to find a snack that’ll hit the spot. I wish I could remind her that really, she’s craving wrestling practice – it takes her a while, but although I’m still passed out on the couch, enjoying the peace and quiet, she manages to make it sound like I’m badgering her to go home. She drags me off the couch, and we’re off to the ring – my real day begins!

Sneak Attack

Lunch is my favorite part of the day at the office. We all sit on the couches and I jump from one hug to another. I try to nobly ignore the little dog whose trying to get me yelled at – more on that later. Lunch is the best time of day. I spent a lot of time observing their every move, and have come up with a fail proof modus operandi to get myself food that doesn’t taste like cardboard. The little dog has it all wrong: she jumps from one lap to another and tries the sad puppy eyes routine, but she just gets yelled at. I patented a perfect air of nonchalance that I sport while taking in the scents of the day and developing my plan.
I wait for them to clear the dishes. While they continue their discussion in the kitchen, I swiftly lick the table clean, treating my tongue to the delectable tastes of gourmet vegetarian cooking courtesy of one of the boys who comes to play with me sometimes, and secretly introduces me to exotic delicacies such as pears and cereal – I have a crush on him. What I failed to mention is that I have already savored most of the raw ingredients by convincing whomever happens to be on cooking duty that vegetable debris are much happier in my mouth than in the non existing compost bin!
My next move is technically arduous, but I have managed to pull it off on several occasions. Just so you’re oriented let me identify the whereabouts of everyone before I begin; the smokers circle is on the roof, expecting me to entertain them with a game of tug or by striking a cute pose. Meanwhile, the non-smoker is sitting on the couch with her earplugs in, catching up on the Huffington post. She is susceptible to enter the kitchen for a post lunch snack or tea at any time. I must be swift. I escort the smokers outside, and manage to eclipse myself just as the little dog does something worthy of attention.
I am inside, but must still make it safely into the kitchen. I wait for the non-smoker to start laughing, and dash in before she looks up to see if there’s anyone around to share the moment with. Today’s my lucky day – they had tacos! And they left the ingredients spread out on the cutting board, well within reach – score!
My mouth is watering with anticipation when, out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of BUTTER! I have a soft spot for dairy, and butter provides for a fulfilling feast. I hesitate a fraction of a second, my eyes going from one counter to another as I carefully weigh my options. Butter is safer, but the variety of the cutting board is taunting me. I’ve been planning this for too long – I have to stick to the safe option. As I hop up to snatch the butter, I hear the smokers head towards the door.
I rush to my bed, concealing the butter between my paws. I lie on my side and pretend to snore, keeping one eye open in case I need to relocate my prize. They each regain their desks and get back to chatting, refreshing facebook and online shopping.
The coast is clear, I take in the rich smell, delicately remove the wrapper with a lick - as the salt hits my taste buds, my tail wags with excitement.
I check my surroundings one last time and dive into bliss. I’m within tongues reach when I feel my neck pulled backwards. She has that look. I cower back to my chair, tail between my legs revealing my frustration as much as my fear of being chastised. She feeds the butter to the fruit flies in the trash (what a waste), and after making sure I see THE look, settles down to snuggle.

Being a good hostess

Last week, three wonderful women I didn't know came all the way from France to see Me! How exciting! Needless to say, I'm swamped; entertaining them, showing them around, introducing them to our local customs, making sure they take more pictures of me than the scenery - hard work, but its paying off, I'm a star.

They are going to steal my car for a few weeks and go on a road trip where they can concentrate on their sight seeing and not be constantly distracted by my absolute cuteness. Once they leave, I should be able to find time to resume my regular postings. Right now, I'm just too busy being a princess.

Wrestling for a consensus

Ok, so last week, I did a half ass job trying to express myself… apologies aside, this seems to be a recurring problem. She and I are constantly struggling to come to an agreement on my exercise routine. She usually wins – but that’s just because she’s bigger…in wrestling, we wouldn’t be in the same weight class. That being said, I decided to take a tally of this week’s persuasion techniques
Monday, round 1. I find that things work best between us when we have a routine (although I can already tell she disagrees with this). If I get my wrestling practice and a walk, on time, every day, I can pass for the star student of any obedience class. When she feels she has “better” things to do and leaves me to devise my own means of entertainment, that’s when things get ugly and I morph into a walking shredder of all her favorite belongings. Saturday was one of those days; I went for the address book (who has address books nowadays anyways?!), and she’s been a model parent since. P 1- J 0.
Tuesday, round 2. So she’s been taking me to wrestling practice every afternoon. It’s a beautiful field with a fence around it, and although its on the small side, boy do I run, and wrestle, and run again, play tug, chase, wrestle, drink, run, drink, collapse…well, actually no, and I think that might be the problem. We stay there for an hour every night after work, and I just can’t seem to get enough. Communication problem once again. I try to casually sit on the grass and entertain myself with a stick, I move it around if someone tries to somehow entice me into a game of tug. To me, the message is clear. I’m wiped out, I need to rest, I’m hungry – I can’t decently settle down for a nap or turn down an invitation to play while I’m still on the field, and I never can seem to find the ref to signal for a sub. The problem is, she’s got the power. And she’s always dragging me out just as I’m about to come out on top…or she waits long after I’m pooped and my stats are suffering. When she’s ready to leave, we’re out of there! Tuesday, I was about to body slam a heavyweight champion, and out of nowhere, she straps me into that contraption that I once heard a human call the umbilical cord between her and me. Umbilical cord my ass. It’s a proper torture device! P 1 - J 0.5 (half point taken off for illegal use of torture).
Wednesday, round 3. On the field, at the beach and on the hill, I am free of that device though. As she explained to me, it is for my safety, and I have earned the privilege of romping without it because I follow directions (sometimes). As far as I’m concerned, we should discard it for the streets too, but when I tried to suggest that on our way to work, she brought up that one time I broke loose and didn’t quite make it safely across the street. I’m fine now, aren’t I? Well, true, I’m not the one paying for the medical bills. P 2 - J 1.5 (Hey, I’m the one that got hurt, so I get a pity point).
Thursday, round 4. Seriously, being free is what’s up! She’s not super athletic to say the least, and, well, I need to run. I’ve noticed that not all my buddies are as lucky. Some of them stay tied up for their whole walk; others have their mouths tied shut - I’m not sure what that’s about, because when I do manage to free them, they seem to be quite succinct in communicating their anger. Over the few months that I’ve been free myself (I used to be locked up before I met her), I’ve taken it upon myself to try and spread the freedom. If they’re tied up, I manage to get tangled so their person has to let go, and we can run off together. With the mouth thing, it gets a little complicated, because I have to get close enough to bite the thing off, but I’m particularly proud of one instance when I freed the same friend 5 times in one walk! That must be some kind of record. She gently scolds me because the other humans get her in trouble, but I know she’s proud of me for standing up for what we both believe in! P 3 – J 2.5 (She’s a co conspirator in this to say the least).
Friday, round 5. Instead of going to the enclosed field this morning, we went for the view. There were no electronics between us, the day was off to a good start. We both got a good work out, especially when she had to follow me, running, when I opted for the road less traveled down the hill. She let me stay later than usual when we finally ran into my buddy Jasper – his people don’t tie him up either. When it really is getting too late, and we don’t want everyone at work to find out what slackers we are, she calls me. In my defense, I had Jasper in this new headlock I’ve been working on…well, I don’t hear her, and she’s able to catch me, and she ties me up in front of my friend. Being the opportunist that he is, he body slammed me and ran away before I could show him who’s boss. P 3…J 3.5…
That same human that told her the bull%!&$ about the umbilical cord has her thinking that if she ever lets me win, I’ll be top dog – I’m doomed.

Accidental techie

You may not have picked up on this yet, but I was adopted into a French household. The first thing she did was change my name from Wawona to Percival (spelled Perceval as far as they’re concerned) and voila, I was French. This may seem trivial, and I’m still working on the whole bilingual thing, but boy, do I fit right in! I dig raw meat, raw cheese; I feast on the bread left out on the counter, and spit it out in disgust if it’s not Parisian style baguette. I practice soccer in the back yard with special attention to head-butting the bench, my very own Matterazzi. The hardest part for me – and you’ll undoubtedly agree that this is pivotal in passing as French – is learning to complain.
I am possibly the most enthusiastic being you have come across (I was, after all, born in California). Whether it be going out for a walk, coming back home, getting to cuddle on the couch with her, absolutely everything deserves to be celebrated. But since I know it makes her proud, whenever I notice the slightest signs of injustice, I let my voice be heard, I take it to the streets! Well, maybe not the streets, she doesn’t really let me out there on my own, but I certainly take it out to the living room.
I don’t know if it’s the French influences kicking in, or if I’m really being shortchanged, but lately, I’ve noticed something just isn’t right. You’d think, as an only child, I would be the center of attention. Think again. I am constantly competing with screens! Sure, she takes me to the office with her, they all take regular breaks to come play, cuddle, or smoke cigarettes with me, but between breaks, when they are “working” on youtube, I have to resort to sitting on their laptops to establish my presence.
Our morning walks used to bring us closer, trudging up the hill to a breathtaking view of the city…or the fog. We would exchange conniving looks before faking each other out in touch football. Sometimes, she would sit down and lovingly watch me as I wrestled with a new friend. Last week, she put some weird things over her ears and didn’t bother to share her hilarity…Well, I happen to have excellent hearing, and do not find it amusing that we are not on speaking terms with Zapatero.
When she sits on the couch, I can usually pull off a cute pause to distract her from the TV and convince her to indulge in my very own péché mignon: Tug of War, but last time, she was laughing…that same laugh – a mixture of disbelief and hope. I was pouting in a corner, but something about lipstick being the sole differential between me and the vice-presidential candidate…please. She can see Russia from her house! All I see from my house is fog, or on a lucky day, a hill that I’m not climbing because someone is playing scrabble, checking her e mail, or catching up on politics on that stupid laptop.
Remember how I said I took things to the streets/ living room? Well, I tried. One day, she came back from a 3 day trip, I threw her the regular over enthusiastic party, and what did she do? She checked her e mail, and headed straight for the hot tub (don’t even get me started on the hot tub). I was furious! Furious, humiliated, although still happy as ever to have her home; I had to find another culprit – I don’t know how to hold a grudge against her. Well, while she wasn’t looking, the laptop and I had a little heart to heart. All I can say is that there was biting involved and I let that laptop have it! Then she came out of the hot tub, and, well, frankly, I’d rather not talk about it.
She uses this ringing device to talk to her family. The slightest sound and she’s on it. It’s all in French, and as I’ve said, I’m working on the bilingual thing. I’m not sure how this works, but I usually end up staying home while she’s out having fun. I figured, if I can work that ringing device, I might have some fun of my own. One morning, while she was in her shower, it rang, and I tried to answer. I’m not sure why, but every time I try to explore my inner techie, I end up in the doghouse.

Morning news

I wake up, drunk with sleep, my teeth clenched on the reality of my last dream. Stretch out, yawn, stretch up, yawn louder. It’s morning, but still too early. The sun hasn’t hit my bed yet. I let myself fall back on my comforter with a loud sigh. I’m awake, but confident that I can get a little more sleep before it all begins.
The first cars are leaving the streets. The stray cat is picking himself up off my front stoop. I make out the front page of the paper through the window: some farfetched explanation of the recent crime wave; they seem to think we need more of those loud cars –I think we could all use more wrestling practice. I stretch out some more and return to the land of golden fields, endless beaches and wrestling.
It’s trash day, my morning sleep is interrupted once more. The man steps right up to my house, grabs the three bins and returns them to the right house…fascinating! A few more cars leave. There goes the Prius…I have time. The sun is right on my bed now, its rays stroking me with their warmth. I stretch out again. The house is completely still.
My dreams take me to afternoon fun with my friends, running, playing ball, WRESTLING…did I mention I’m into wrestling? Voices slowly rise from downstairs. I am fully alert. It’s a sure sign that it’s almost time. The radio is blaring about last night’s catastrophes. I try to ignore the seriousness of it all. I find it depressing to wake up to the news. Her alarm is always set to the radio, except when it’s the pledge drive and she switches to the instant gratification of the cell phone. I like pledge drive weeks.
The house is still completely silent, but for this morning’s traffic report. I take my cue and rush to the bathroom before it’s too late. I check over the house, the yard, everything looks fine. I’m ready. I slip back into bed for a last date with the sun. The radio has moved on to foreign affairs, I can’t quite make out which country we’re geared to declare war on next – sounded like Russia, but even I know better, maybe it’s a retrospective. The street is strangely still; empty, really, except for the woman in her three wheeled car leaving yet another note on our car. She makes me nervous.
I think it’s time as I try to guess which one I need to greet first this morning… Downstairs sounds promising; I can hear the sheets ruffling; the twisting and turning. I jump out of bed, make my way down the cold metal stairs, and revert to daydreaming on the couch.
The wait is killing me. She always takes her sweet time waking up, taunting me with the hope that the radio will have the expected effect on her. It’s morning, there’s adventures to go on, new people to meet, new scents to smell, wrestling practice. How can she possibly sleep through Wall Street’s plunge, the car bombs and the five-car accident on the Bay Bridge.
If they would just move on to the elections, I would stand a chance! She always stirs when she hears their names, although it’s hit or miss as to the mood she’ll wake in.
Maybe if I show myself she’ll get a clue. I lay down on the cold wood floor by her bed, scratching myself vigorously…sometimes that works. She moans, but has not yet made eye contact, and the weather is about to come on: the results could be devastating.
I lay still while I am told that today will be foggy – they call that news? I’m in for a wait. She doesn’t like to get up when it’s foggy.
I dart upstairs, still hoping that the other one might wake up – no sign of life. I sneak in a few bites of breakfast on the run. I grab the comic books strewn on the kitchen table and proceed to devour them in bed…how decadent! My ears perk up when I hear her reach for her glasses.
I’m at her side in a heartbeat, dancing furiously for attention; when I see her foot collide with my head, it’s too late, I let out a muffled cry. I look up, perturbed. She has her laptop, she is frantically searching, something big must have happened. She distractedly comforts me, knowing it’s already forgiven.
I sulkily retreat to my comic books. I’ve mustered as much hatred as I can against that laptop, so I let myself slowly sink into a deep sleep…
I wake up, drunk with sleep, my teeth clenched on the reality of my last dream. Stretch out, yawn, stretch up, yawn louder. It’s morning. And she’s up, and she’s showered, and she’s got my leash, and I greet her as if this were my first morning because I know that while she’s got 40 plus days till election day, I’m 5 minutes away from wrestling.