Sunday, March 20, 2011
My life was good until SHE came.
My wonderful masters were packing their bags and I was hiding in the closet. I hate when they go.
I watch HER fly in the door.
I see the list. A yellow list with neat lines. The list says that she is supposed to feed me twice a day, two scoops dry dog food, 2 tablespoons can style dog food. Pretty self explanatory stuff. The list didn't even mention my walk or my need for affection or the fact that I am obsessed with dog treats.
She and her sister “ohhh” and “ahh” over Owen. Owen. The little beast who steals all my God-given attention.
Of course my hopes begin to soar when SHE looks me in the eye from time to time and says, “Oh Maggie”, patronizingly of course. Never mind that. I can't be picky. I have to take what I can get. She rubs my ears. I think that's all she does and then my dreams die as she moves on to play trains with Owen.
Side note. I hate trains. Train are distracting little evil symbols of torture. They are scattered all across the house and my paws trip over them from time to time. The worst part is that trains matter more than me. I never win this competition. In a room with Thomas the Train show on, it's always Thomas that wins, not me. No matter how soft my coat is or even if I just had a good groom it does not matter. Owen likes his train tracks. Sometimes I find those bloody toys in my food, as if I want to have them as my very own steel and plastic diet.
Anyway, back to HER. She thinks she owns this place. She turns on the fireplace. Makes food. Invites her friends over for coffee and wine. Uses my internet. Lays in my bed. Plays with Owen on my grass. The least she could do was show me some love and feed me while she and Owen eat dinner. But the more I pout next to her at the table the more annoyed she becomes. Sometimes she drops some crumbs. Unfortunately the house maid is quicker than me and mops it up before I have a chance to indulge in a less than favorable crumb snack.
Now here is a confusing, ironic matter: Potty training. While SHE makes a huge deal out of Owen using the little boy potty, she does not CARE that I am the far more mannered and classy being of the household. The freaking potty sings when Owen goes. Nothing sings for me. In fact SHE does not even realize when it's time for me to go. I pace by the door. I whine. I bark. I hover by the door, hover by her, stare her down. Finally hours and hours later after she has told me to shut up countless times she looks at me with a blank stare. Then suddenly, realization crosses her face. And then like heaven has finally opened, the door opens up to the backyard by one single thrust of her arm. Then slams shut. She is not interested in congratulating me upon my pee scene.
One day, a very un-expected and hopeful thing happened. She could not turn off the fireplace. I was secretly delighted at this opportune moment for I knew SHE was not smart enough to turn it off, but not dumb enough to let it burn the house down. Therefore she was going to have get SOMEONE to come over. That meant I had a chance at love and affection. She brought the neighbor over. He seemed a classy poised human like myself (except in dog version) so I made it obvious that I approved of him immediately. He walked through the door and I barked with delight and even thought he would appreciate a little dance, the one in which my paws greet him at his chest. It is an elegant ballroom type dance and most human are not refined enough to understand the implications. As if my life couldn't get any worse I hear him say, “Don't want dog hair on my wool pants” The horror! Then SHE looks at me. I know it's coming. She grabs me by collar, slides my butt across the floor and hastily throws me into a room where I crash unto the carpet, my nose going flat. Then she locks me inside. Alone. Again. As if I am the outcast of this household, the victim, the diseased, the untouchable!
My lowest point was half way through the weekend though. All day, every hour, I checked my dog food bowl. No dog food. I decided to be patient because I assumed SHE was not the cruelest human there was, even if she was the most blond. I whined by the table when she fed Owen. Wagged my tail when she pulled snacks out of the cupboard. Barked happily when the pizza guy came. Growled because I felt hungry. I knew things were going sideways when SHE went back to her room to put on make-up and do her hair. I knew something was up. She was leaving. She was wrapping a birthday gift. She was trying on clothes and throwing shoes around the room. She was entertaining Owen with lotion and a comb. But she was NOT feeding me. Then I heard the keys. There is nothing like the sounds of keys. A ring. A jingle. You cannot mistake the sound of a car starting either. And with that she was gone. Gone to wine and dine and leave me in the dust to starve...and yes eventually die.
But I am a survivor of neglect, A victim of the most silent abuse ever known. I am here to write you the truth about such things. I am alive, but I am not well. Pets must be warned and educated about “the she”. “The she” does not remember to let you out to go to the bathroom, nor does she remember to feed you. She does not take you on walks, but she takes Owen to the park or beach or wherever he pleases. She does not think that I may want a grand day of escape and adventure. She does not comb my hair like Owen's or kiss me goodnight or say prayers with me.
She does not smile at me.
She laughs at me and mocks my very existence, to this I am ashamed of.
I have one good thing to note. This is to all the pets out there who might encounter an evil SHE. Your best bet to get close to her and experience some love is when she is afraid. It is best when it is the dead of night. It is best to do this when it sounds like there is a hurricane outside because of all the rain and wind. You see she took over my bed and still does not realize she is the true invader. Not I. Nonetheless SHE usually has me lay at her feet like her personal slave. Therefore in order to get back into my bed, I wait till she is very afraid. I wait till it is dark. And I wait till she is alone. Then I pounce on the bed at approximately 3am. While she is flustered and yells at you, she does not shove you off the bed. Instead she says, “lie down” which is actually a good sign because she is finally inviting you back to your rightful bed.
And while it just might be my imagination, she inched a bit closer to me; the night she was afraid. I heard her breathing relax and she fell fast asleep next to me.
Maybe someone, somewhere, forgot to give her “the people food”. Maybe she experienced days of neglect herself where she was locked into a dark cold room because some didn't approve of her. Maybe her masters lost her leash and she could never reconcile the tragedy. Whatever the case I made it my duty to protect her that night.
When I woke up the next morning in my bed I journeyed lazily out to my dog dish in the kitchen. There my dog dish was filled to the top, heaping with my very favorite delicacy: Dog food. She even threw in a dog treat for good measure.