Tuesday, May 18, 2010


It was definitely a Thursday that it happened.  I was a human, I swear I was!  I had two arms, two legs, walked upright most of the time, and was always well groomed.  I smelled good, too, not at all like the dog down the alley or the cat climbing around in the dumpster behind my building.  When someone said I was out catting around, they meant that I was out wildly partying and maybe getting into situations I should not have gotten into sometimes, with other members of my species, usually male members of my species, and howling at the moon coming up, then the sun coming up, then the sun going down, for an entire weekend, but being a human being, I always picked myself up, brushed my teeth, showered, put on deodorant, and went back to work on Monday with a vigor that would be hopefully well rewarded the next Friday through Sunday.

Then I said it.  

I was spending a rare weekend at home, really tired, really wrung out from the week.  I guess I felt that Lucky, my little Dachshund, really owed me something for staying home with her that weekend instead of shipping her off to a pet sitter who probably did not even remember her name once the check was written.  Lucky was lying on the kitchen floor in that way that only Dachshunds, Cocker Spaniels, and Schnauzers can, with their back legs straight behind them, disjointed at the hips so their bellies absorb the coolness from the floor tiles.  When I came into the kitchen on Saturday morning she barely glanced up at me, sighed as she got up to go outside for her daily constitutional, and flaunted herself up the steps to come in with an attitude.  She stood by the stove, waiting patiently with her turned-up Dachshund eyes, her ears drooping in a way that made her look as if she was embarrassed, ashamed, or abused.  

When I bent down to scratch my dog behind the ears, she actually copped even more of an attitude and pulled her head away, sauntered to her food dish and began eating with such total disdain toward me and my efforts to love her up on this sunny Saturday morning, that I blurted out, "My God, Lucky!  Do you realize how good you have it?  You lay around all day long on the cool tile, someone fills up your food and water dish twice a day, scoops your piles of poop up when you go on your little jaunts around the neighborhood on a retractable leash so you don't have to be embarrassed to be seen with us, and you have the balls to cop an attitude with me?  What I wouldn't give to have YOUR life!"  

And now I do.  I run around for hours trying to get someone to pet me.  I chase slobbered up dirty toys I don't want to put my mouth on, try to communicate my wants and needs by moving my ears around, lick things I would really rather not, eat cold dog food from a refrigerated can, and hold my pee for twenty-four hours at a time until someone comes home to let me out. 

What do I get for that?  What do I get for that unconventional love and dedication?  The right to fart anywhere, anytime, under any circumstances and watch the humans go crazy every time I lift my leg on the new chair, and if I am lucky, sometimes I get scratched behind my ears without having to beg.  

Lucky.  Now why the heck would anyone name a dog Lucky? 


Magpie said...

LOL...very clever, Kathy!!

Tracy said...

Haha. It's a dog's life! NOT.