Dog Bless You

I miss dogs. Dogs are funnier by trade. Even the jokes about dogs are funnier. We have three cats and they're cool. They're cool because they act like dogs. I don't tell them this because I don't want to hurt their little non-dog feelings. I do love them. I do. They are good inside friends. But they are not dogs.

I grew up with a dog who was the same age as me. His name was Ben and he was a beagle/basset. I really really hated him when we first got him. He scared the living shit out of me, to be accurate. I was six and I was teeny for my age. Skinny, short, slow kids make for awesome dog toys if you're wondering what to get your furry best friend this Christmas.

For the first two weeks of "adjustment" as Mom called it, I spent my time on the back of the couch with the coffee table pulled flush against the seat part so that it made it harder for Ben to scale to doggy victory. Every time I left the safety of the couch, he would chase me down and wrap his two front legs around mine and trip me. I'd lay there in a heap while he jumped around like a loon. I figured if I didn't move too obviously, he'd get bored and become distracted by something shiny or loud. No luck. He'd sit there while I cowered and listened to Mom say "Oh you don't have to be scared. He's just playing with you. He's not used to little girls." I may not have had to be scared, but I volunteered for it. His teeth were big and my hands were soft, yet crunchy and fun to chew if he were inclined to do so. After a while the jumping would stop and he'd lie down next to me. I liked him then. He was my level and I could look him in the eye.

We made peace on Halloween after weeks of trippage and couch anxiety. I don't know if it was my Lemon Meringue costume that made him see me as a force to be reckoned with, or if he just found more pleasure from my pets and lovins than from my fear and crying spells. I know I did. We lived in harmonious peace and mutual adoration until May 20, 1992 when he committed suicide. Yes, he killed himself. He laid down behind the truck so that a driver couldn't see him and then waited for someone to back over him. It was quick and he was 15, and while sad, it was how he wanted it. We had to respect his wishes.

I live next to a very busy main drag and still believe car + animals = suck. With that in mind, the kitties are inside only and we compensate with many many toys. J fashioned a virtual box city for Flikka out of different boxes we've collected from mailed packages and Costco visits. We have a fishing pole with a sock on the end of a shoelace that makes The Reverend literally jump for joy. We also have several toys in shapes that mostly please them, like a small cloth sandwich and a little burger. Madge only requires a secluded closet where no one will bother her. Especially if the someones aren't legally allowed to vote yet. She's very patriotic. And hates kids. One exception to that rule is The Pixie. Madge would allow K to throw her from the balcony if she wanted to. Madge worships her. She was so distraught when we took her back to Canada that she didn't come out of her closet for three days except to use the facilities. We brought her room service to see her through the ordeal. They are righteous familiars, the kitties.

But I still miss dogs.