Moose in the Kitchen

Are you ready for a heartwarming story about a girl and her dog? Prepare yourself for a brutal twist at the end of the first paragraph. After all, this blog appears when you search “ritualistic rabbit killings.” Not until the second page of google, but that alone should prove the enthusiasm with which I snack on babies. Of course, I’m not the evil one here. The evil one is the fuzzy creature who looks as if she was the inspiration for both Snickers bars and world peace. This is called foreshadowing, by the way. Write that down.

On with the heartwarming tale:

Walking in the front door last night, I found the dog waiting in the entryway, tail wagging expectantly. I dropped to my knees to give her the pets she’s always lurching after. She took one look at me, cocked her head as if to say “accept carresses from you? How low do you think I need to sink?” before turning her back and walking out of the room.

Offended by the insolent wag of her rear end, but unwilling to give up without a fight, I chased her down and offered her more love. Just in case she misread my strokes of her furry head as a misguided attempt to baptize her into the ancient Egyptian church of kitty worship. Or decided I was a burglar out to steal the loose change and thought watchdogs were supposed to turn and leave the room. (Hint: No. Bark your little head off then take a chunk out of their left leg.) She stood stoically for a minute under the heavy, heavy weight of my unwanted love and then retreated to the entryway to wait for the one she really wanted to see, i.e., someone who is not me.

Ungrateful hound. After all I do for her. Well, I don’t really do much. I don’t walk or feed or bathe her. I always forget to give her treats. But do I complain when she leaves my car and my bed covered in the fur she sheds by the cubic pound?

For your information dog, that would be NO. I don’t. I barely blink an eye when I get up from the couch and find myself dusted in a fine layer of hair. This is the thanks I get. If I wanted to be ignored when I walked in the door, I would get a cat. Or a lobster.

I would not import tasty quince stuffed squirrels for your personal enjoyment. Or allow my car windows to be molested by errant canine snouts. I would not stand patiently for minutes on end while someone else collects your doggy droppings in a plastic bag. I would not allow you to be the cutest one in the house. I would not take multiple pictures with which to annoy the good people of the internet. I would not pass you illicit kitty haunches under the table.

Heaving great, “I am so misunderstood and perhaps I should go play some Edie Brickell and paint my toenails black” sighs, she stared balefully at the door for another hour until her true favorite walked in. Then she lost half her remaining fur in joy and performed a few card tricks before slobbering in happiness as her furry scruff was rubbed. Hello! I may be a distant second but I too have a face you can cover in saliva. I too have hands with which to rub furry scruffs.

DOES THAT MEAN NOTHING TO YOU, YOU INSOLENT PUP?

Probably not, as I don’t spoon out the bacon grease. Oh, yes. The dog gets bacon grease in her food. She also wears Prada. I obviously need to douse myself in pork drippings before walking in the door. Or at least lend her my Edie Brickell album.

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1. Wherein I am the Author of My Own Disappointment
2. Good News: In Bullet Points
3. The Remote Control is Modern Man’s Magic Wand
4. Two Large Rumps, One Small Seat
5. Thirsty Work