My sister Liz and I were talking about dogs and what total jerk-offs they are.
Her family’s dog Sophie died last week. Liz is still pretty pissed off about the whole thing. “I am never getting a dog again,” she told me. “Actually, I’m going to get a dog when I’m 85, so that I can die before it does.”
“So, for revenge,” I said.
“Yeah,” she said, “make that stupid dog cry, for a change.”
That’s the thing about dogs. You feed them, you pet them, you let them sleep in your bed with their paws poking you in the butt, you anoint them with carcinogenic (to you) flea and tick products, and because they’re animals with irritatingly short lifespans, when they fall ill you make sure they have a nice, peaceful death—I mean, they’re not overly troubled by dying. And after it’s all done, you find out what all your years of trouble have brought you: your heart has been torn from its cavity and gnawed up like an old chew-toy. Who needs it?
Apparently we do. And it’s all the dogs’ fault. They’re doing this to us on purpose, I’m sure of it.
Despite her (probably) sinister intentions, Sophie was, unfortunately, cute. She was a purebred (translation: inbred, eensy-brained) Springer Spaniel. A bit on the hefty side. But she had the glamorous Springer waves, so that her ears always looked like they had been Marceled. If she had been a person, she would have been an unmarried secretary from the 1930s, living in a women’s residence on the Upper East Side, starting on a promising new reducing regimen, hoping to catch the eye of her boss at the firm. She also would have had a predilection for eating poop.
Sophie was a droopy-eyed, quivering love addict. All you had to do was glance at her, and she would pad over to you, throw her body across your feet, and wait for a morsel of attention to come her way. Our dog Charlie was pretty hot for her (as much as a neutered dog can be hot for a spayed dog), but she made it clear that she wasn’t that kind of girl—dogs meant nothing to her; she was squarely in league with the humans. Once, in Liz’s kitchen, Charlie snuck up to Sophie, jumped up, latched on, and began frantically humping her. She quickly sat down, causing my dog to slide awkwardly off of her rump, and primly exited the room—leaving poor Charlie targetless, humping the air in frustration.
She panted loudly and constantly, and sometimes she smelled a little…off. But she was a nice doggie. Damn her.