Red Room Where the Writers Are

Puppy kitchen

       The puppy is a sorbet.  “What breed’s that?” you ask.  “Anything like a bichon?  I thought she was a Doberman.”  Well, yes, that she certainly is.  What I mean to say is that I write about the puppy as a personal sorbet, a palate cleanser between dealing with the ‘big stuff.’  War, disease, death, destruction, the government, personal angst, global warming.  To focus too long on such topics can be depressing, so I consider the puppy as a healthy interlude.  However, as with the concept of ‘filler,’ the little diva is less than amused. 

     “What’s sorbayyyy?”

     “That’s sorbet.  It’s French.  Like your ballet terms.  It’s similar to ice cream, usually fruit flavored.  People have just a little taste between courses at fancy restaurants so that the taste of one dish won’t affect the taste of the next one.”  Why, oh why can’t I ever see this coming?  I should learn by now.  The endless questioning.  Patience is an art which must be practiced.  Patience is an art which…

     “What kind of fruit?  Would I like it?  Why don’t we have any?  Is it in those little tubs?”  The puppy rears up and paws at the freezer door.  She has quite the elastic stretch.  And she’s still growing!  I make a mental note to buy child-proof refrigerator catches.  “I like those little tubs.  Good stuff.  When are you getting more?  We need more.”  She’s referring to the several pints of Haagen-Dazs she appropriated from a shopping bag last week when my back was turned.  She’s right.  Good stuff.  A very expensive puppy snack.

     “Remember what the vet just said?  She said that you should cut down on the food intake before you get too, ahem, chunky.”  Oh, crap!  I know I’ll regret this.  Here it comes.  I can feel the hostility and wounded pride radiating off the princess like the twinkle on a cubic zirconia.  Flash.  Flash.  Flash.  Sparkle, not substance. 

     “She did not.  I was there too, remember?  If she thought I was, well… you know, that word, chunky, then why did she give me a biscuit?  Huh?  Huh?  Explain that!”  She raises her front paw in defiance, or did she just give me the finger?

     “She’s the doctor.  She always gives biscuits to make everyone feel welcome.  It was low-calorie.”  It really wasn’t, but how would the puppy know?

     “That was not a low-cal!  You tried to pawn one off on me last week and I’ll never forget the taste.  I’ll eat a lot of things, but never low-cal.  It’s disgusting.  Now let’s talk about this sorbayyyyy stuff some more.  Go get some now, now, now.”

     “Well, actually, sorbet is low-cal.”

     “Okay, then.  I’ll wait for the Haagen-Dazs.  I prefer honey vanilla or chocolate, but I don’t want any little funny things in it, and don’t forget the…..”