The subject line of the email I just sent to my lovely Robbye about my not-so-lovely dog, Elvis. Below, the salient portion of the email body:
After this morning, I swear I’d PAY someone to haul that yellow bastard away!
Okay…I really love him. But I was PISSED! I get home, and what do you think I find? You got it…the pork roast that I put in the fridge to thaw last night..? F’ing torn apart all over the living room floor. I almost blew a gasket.
I stayed mad at him for about an hour. Of course, then, while I was doing email on the couch, he comes up and worms his head onto my shoulder–a hug. He was apologizing. So I hugged him back, and he climbed up on my lap for another hug. And I chastised him, and he looked back at me as if to say, “I know, Daddy. I’m sorry. I’ll try to be good.”
Who can stay mad at that?
Turns out, I can’t. All I can say is that little shit’s sure lucky that he’s family. And that he lacks balls for which to be strung up by. ‘Cause after this morning, I swear to God I would do it.
…Yeah. I know. Big talk. Crusty shell, gooey marshmallow inside.
It’s a case of Elvis simply being too smart for his own good. He can open the sliding glass door in the living room (not that he’s mastered the ability–or gives a flying crap about my heating bills enough– to close the thing), but now the fridge, too? What next? I’m waiting for the day I spring some deadly trap as I walk into the house. As I lay there, gasping, heaving my final breaths, eyes wide in terror, he will be there…quite the different dog. No hint of the goofy, gangling, drooling mutt I love.
“Ah yes, ‘Daddy’…how easily are those supposedly in power blinded by their percieved superiority. Well, now we know better. Don’t we?”
I don’t need to say anything. I don’t need to nod even…not that I could if I wanted. My blood, pooling and cooling on the floor at my feet says everything Elvis needs to hear.