Flying
down an unimpeded straight line beneath the cupboards, I skid into a turn and hurtle through the doorway into the far end
of the living room. With a head of steam
now building, I fly into the air, land on the couch and do a triple summersault
down the length of the seat cushions. Landing
in the pillows, I topple onto the floor with a flourish. Now is a good time to play “catch me if you
can.” I feint and dodge and almost
always out-maneuver the two old folks who insist they own me. Maybe they do, but not during Faster Than A
Speeding Bullet.
Last
night the guest named Mrs. Irish swooped down out of nowhere and scooped me up
in her arms. I didn’t fight very hard to
free myself. She cooed and smiled and
said what a nice dog I was.
“But,”
she said, “you’re not very disciplined.”
“Well,
no,” I yipped. “So what?”
“Do
you mind if I teach Murphy a few things?”
she asked of the old codgers.
“Be
my guest,” the old man said, as a hopeful look dawned across his face.
With
that, Mrs. Irish sat down on the couch, firmly placed me on the floor, flipped
me on my side and pressed me into the
carpet. I lay there flattened like a slice of bacon.. I tried to mouth her, which is not quite a
bite. But she only smiled in surprise,
again called me a nice dog and clamped her
iron hand around my muzzle.
“Relax,
Murphy,” she said.
How
could I relax when every muscle of my body was clamped to the carpet and I
couldn’t even open my mouth?
But
she kept talking softly to me and eventually I did let my sails luff.
Suddenly,
she let me go, I jumped up on her, but
she caught me and clamped me to the floor again. This went on three or four more times
until I finally surrendered. In fact, I’m thinking about maybe giving up
jumping on people.
“Where
did you learn to control dogs so well?” the old timer asked Mrs. Irish.
“At
home,” she said, “practicing on our German Shepherd.”
“That’s
a big, dog,” he said.
Mrs.
Irish nodded in agreement. “Baron is
almost a hundred pounds and he’s pure jet black.”
“Holy
crap,” I barked. “Don’t bring him over
here.”
“You
should bring Baron over to play with Murphy,” the old man said.
“Are
you crazy?” I barked. “He’d have me for
lunch.”
“Good
idea,” said the Irishwoman.
“Hey! Just a minute here,” I muttered. “This is not
a good idea.”
She
was nodding her head again. “Murphy
would fall in line with a bigger dog around.”
“Fall
in line?” I whimpered. “I’d fall over dead.”
And
so Baron is due here this morning, in just a few minutes. I’m sure he won’t want to play Run Around In A Circle Untill We Drop or Pull
The Pillows Off The Couch And Into The Bathroom. And I’m sure he long ago gave up Bark Your
Lungs Out For Fifteen Minutes At Absolutely Nothing.
The
old codger looks happy to have made a deal with the devil as he opens the door. I swear the smell of fire and brimstone
drifts in. I hear the devil woman’s high
pitched womanly laugh. And then comes a
low rumbling growl. I feel like a strip
of bacon.
copyright 2015, David Griffin
Murrells Inlet, South Carolina
www.windsweptpress.com
