“Whachya doin’? Can I do it?” The puppy is pacing beside the bathtub. Back and forth she goes, very non-rhythmically. I get dizzy easily. I’m dizzy now.
“It’s called a bath. Trust me. You don’t want it.” A dear friend has given me bubbling bath oil, vanilla-scented, but subtly so, with a soupcon of cinnamon. A care package reaction to my latest dismal adventures. Many women dream of a sudsy tub, soft music, candle-glow, the epitome of ultimate relaxation and luxury. I have such a dream. My dreams are often trod upon by four determined paws. This is one of those dreams.
“How do you know that I don’t want it? Do you? You think you’re so damn smart. Ha! There’s lots of other smart people too, you know. There’s the pressydent of everybody and the pressydents of nobodys. They’re smart. And that George Carlin guy. He’s way smart. And you’re always talkin’ bout your uncle Al I-ner-styn. He’s probably smart. And Oprah, she’s way smarter than you, cause she’s rich, rich, rich. I wish I was Oprah’s puppy. How come I got you? How come we’re poor? Huh? Why is that?”
It’s a puppy-rant and high on her usual befuddlement, she continues pacing. Her ranting has left her panting, and here I sprawl in a very large water dish. I’m thinking pleasant thoughts. Ah, I am at the seashore and the waves lap gently against me in the warm shallows.
“Sluuurrrrppp. Sluuurrrrppp.” A distasteful vacuuming noise is a coda to the puppy-rant. “Sluuuuurrrrppp.” I do believe she intends to drink the tub dry.
“This is tasty. Better than the wheelbarrow-water. I like the bubbies. Watch what I can do!” She inserts that long nose into the water and makes a little burst of current. Not a hot-tub jet. Not even close. I have become a cog in a Rube Goldberg machine. A Disney movie not G-rated, since what I say next is only meant for well-seasoned ears.
“You f***ing little brat. Get the f*** away from me! Let me relax. Go get your toys. Go watch Lassie reruns. Get the f*** away! Now!” I’m not mincing words here. It’s been a stressful day and my princess multiplies the stress with every annoying breath she draws.
“You said the George Carlin word! That’s why you’re stupid. He was smart! He got paid for it!” Once again proving herself right and entirely correct, she laughs her hickety-hickety puppy laugh, inserts a paw into the bath, and splashes me right in the face.
“You need to wash your mouth out with soap!” I stand, or rather recline, corrected.
Causes Mara Buck Supports
Kennebec Valley Humane Society, Amnesty International