“A check list, yes,” I said, “so I can check off the
things I’ve done right.”
“OK,
that’s fair. We’ll make a check list for
a One Year Old Dog.”
“You
handle the pencil and paper,” I said. “I
don’t write very well.”
“Here,”
he said, “let me label this across the top of the sheet of paper: ‘Expected
Behavior of An Alive And Currently
Breathing One Year Old Dog.' Now, what
shall we put down first on our list?"
“OK,
first,” I said. “He doesn’t poop on the floor. Ever.”
“You
did last week,” said the old guy.
“Yeah,
but that didn’t count. I got messed up
on my schedule.”
“Actually,”
he said, “you lost track of what you were doing during your time outside and
then had to go when you got back in the house.”
“OK, OK,” I said, but I want half credit for that
one. Here’s another. And this one is important: ‘Dog Defends His
Servants From all Perils.’
“You do?” he said, his eyes rolling. “All you do is run around the house heedlessly
barking out the windows at nothing.”
“I’m
trying to cover all the perils,” I said.
“How
about waiting till you see one before you start barking?”
“Never
give a peril a chance to get ahead of you,” I said. “But I’ve got another. Write this down. “Contributes to Household
Economy By Eating Outdated Dog Food Without Complaint.”
“Wait
a minute, there’s nothing wrong with that food,” he said.
“Here’s
another,” I said. “Write this down:
‘Establishes Home’s Reputation By Welcoming Anyone Who Walks Through The Door.”
“You
jump all over them,” he said, “and won’t leave them alone the entire time
they’re visiting.”
“Like
I said …”
“You
terrorized the young widow Mrs. Zolushka, our Russian Avon lady.”
“Who,
me?”
“You
wouldn’t stop licking her. I had to stop
you at her elbows.”
“You’re
just jealous,” I told him.
“Regardless
…”
“I
can’t get enough of that Volgograd Sleeper Cell body lotion,” I said. "Or her other favorite."
“I
know what you mean,” he said. “I buy it from the young lady just to help her
out.”
“You
shouldn’t be wearing that stuff,” I said.
“I
don’t,” he said, “I use it to clean the drains.”
“Why
do I feel like I’m losing this game,” I asked.
“How many accomplishments can I have on your list?”
“As
many as you want,” he said.
“I
mean how many checkmarks do I need to have a party?”
“Let’s
say … five.”
“How
many do I have so far?”
“None
that I can see.”
“We’re
wasting time and you’re pulling one of my four legs,“ I said. “I saw my
birthday cake on the kitchen table.”
“There’s
the doorbell,” he said. “It’s Mrs. Zolushka.”
You
can’t go wrong when your servants bake you a cake and your birthday present
shows up at the door wearing Pushkin Nights body lotion.
Copyright by David Griffin, 2015
The
Windswept Press
