14 5 / 2013
My dog always looks like she’s woken up with a hangover. She crawls out of her designated cave area around four in the afternoon today and slinks through the place. This is, I think, earlier than she got up yesterday. ”Oh haiiiiiii,” I call out. Her paws click slowly. She either doesn’t hear me or she is ignoring me as she trots by. I think she’s kind of deaf. Or she’s kind of a bitch. I want to give her a robe and some sunglasses and a bloody Mary. I half expect her to ask if there’s any coffee. I wish she would ask, actually. I think my dog would be fun to talk to. I think she’d laugh at the things I said, and that’s really all I ever want in a friend. I think she’d also ask me to stop putting bows in her hair, though. Maybe it’s a good thing she doesn’t talk.
People say my dog looks like me. I can see it. The bows. The peeing roughly every twenty minutes. She’s prissy and I swear to God, I see her roll her eyes whenever I tell her to sit or lie down because those are the only ‘tricks’ she chooses to do despite going through two rounds of Doggy Training School (She failed the first time) (Laziness. I refuse to think of her as dumb. She just lacks focus!)
To make light of the fact that she sleeps all day is easier than coming to terms with the fact that she is getting old. But she still looks like a puppy. This is because somewhere in my place I have a painting of her that is quietly aging while she barks, loudly, at her reflection in the door that leads to the patio, letting me know she wants to go out and pee. Again.
07 5 / 2013