Speed Dating at the Dog Park
by tio Stib
with apologies to John Mortimer and Rumpel
I woke sneezing.
eyes watering, I looked around. Nothing unusual. I sneezed again and it hit me. She Who Must Be Obeyed was wearing her latest attempt at scented feminine allure.
“Gigi! come here!” snapped the woman at her “comfort animal,” the creature to whom she incessantly unloaded her unbearable load of unending burdens.
This was unexpected behavior. The mantle clock showed 9 a.m. and this was a woman who was never out of her bathrobe before 10:30. Her ladies circle knew that lunch was the earliest social invitation she would accept.
Her voice barked from the hallway, “Gigi! Here! Now!”
Okay, She Who Must Be Obeyed rules the roost, but I don’t want that going to her head. I rise from my bed, stretch, shake, then slowly saunter towards the front door. I check out the frustrated woman holding a leash and staring me down.
What’s going on. She Who Must Be Obeyed is all done up, coiffed hair, a sweater two sizes too small, tight jeans, and, really? Even high heels. All this drowned in a cloud of nauseating perfume.
I sneezed again.
She snaps on the leash and I’m dragged out the door headed for the Volvo.
the light comes on. We’re going to the dog park, Benicia’s gathering place for socially needy people and their ill mannered pets. She Who Must Be Obeyed has got the hots for that man she met last week. The guy who smelled like pipe tobacco, with that utterly ugly English bulldog alongside him..
Apparently she’s late because we squeal out of the driveway narrowly missing Mr. rumple walking his two sausage dogs. She Who Must Be Obeyed shouts curses at all the “damn senile old farts” impeding her way. this from a woman well into her retirement years. Fortunately, she has the grace to roll down my window so I can escape the malodorous stench.
And then we’re there, parked, and she’s carefully eyeing herself in the rear view mirror. A touch of lipstick, and another shot of that offensive perfume.
“alright Gigi, time to play!” and she’s out and over to my door, wobbling on those silly heels. I jump out, doing my best to assume the manner of a highly regarded canine of at least 50% pedigree poodle blood. One of us needs to be acting like a lady. We cross over to the path leading to the entry gate. It’s the usual mayhem inside, dogs running wild, barking, jumping, sniffing behinds, while clusters of humans engage in mindless chatter.
“Damn!” she mutters, obviously the man she seeks is not there. Undeterred, She who Must Be Obeyed puts on her game face and opens the gate.
Now let’s be clear, I’ve never been a fan of this kind of canine speed dating and the sudden rush of noses in my direction caused me to cower between those ridiculous red heels.
“Get out there Gigi, you’re supposed to be having fun!”
right, since when is having your rear end snorted by dozens of drooling, tongue wagging, foul smelling dogs half of whom try to hop on your back, anything close to fun?
I bared my teeth, snarled, put on my most menacing evil eye and rabid she wolf glare. the butt sniffing crowd abruptly froze, checked out the curled lips and snapping teeth, and turned to friendlier climes.
“Oh! It’s you, what a nice surprise,” swooned She Who Must Be Obeyed, oblivious to the furry chaos around her.
There was a mumbled acknowledgement wrapped in the scent of pipe tobacco. And there was Rex, sitting stoic beside two stout legs clothed in tweed. His massive, wrinkled head eyed me impassively. to his credit, not the slightest indication of any interest in jumping me. He just sat there, solid, restrained, with absolutely no interest in joining the antics and acrobatics of the unleashed dog pack.
Rex was growing on me.
Then I saw them. Two of the most beautiful brown leather penny loafers I’d ever seen.
Now, I have few faults but I do admit to one fetish. Shoes. I have an absolute craving, an animal need, to chew shoes. This irrepressible urge has been with me since puppy days and it has resulted in some extremely strong words from She Who Must Be obeyed. I remember one particularly fraught episode when she left me untended for the day and I happily munched, tore, shredded, and slobbered over every shoe I could reach in her excessively well stocked clothes closet.
I no longer have free roaming privileges in the house and shoes are rarely left on the floor, but She Who Must Be Obeyed sometimes forgets and I rapturously destroy another pair of Hush Puppy slippers.
My eyes widened as I took in the marvel of of two exquisitely made, well preserved penny loafers. Really, who wears such things anymore? And there were even real pennies in the slots.
Irresistible.
I leaped.
He screamed, and began furiously shaking the leg with the 50% poodle’s teeth blissfully sunk into his beautiful brown penny loafer.
She Who Must Be Obeyed looked down and gasped,
“Gigi!?”
The Bulldog Buddha was unmoved.
Perhaps smiling.
