Thursday, December 8, 2011

Where the Red Fern Groans: The Origin of Flea

Morning Readers,

     Who wants to hear a story about why I hate my dog? Of course you do, mostly because it's the only way to tell whether I've killed him or not. I really should start keeping a little update on the side of the blog. It'd look something like this:

Today Flea is: Dead...:(  Alive ...:)
copywrite paigekellerman blah blah blah

I'll let you be the judge...
     Yesterday I'd just finished a half-hour round of "You really want to lay down for a nap even though you don't think you do", when I'd finally managed to slip outside and light a cigarette practice yoga while embracing nature, when the dog saw the cable guy...    

     My yoga poses were really smoking, so I did my best to slide behind the barbeque grill while the dog verbally accosted the man massaging my neighbor's cable dish. I called Flea, but to no avail. Meanwhile, I did my best to waft my Downward Marlboro...er.. Dog to the side, so it couldn't be traced back to me. And as I watched the poor man look for the owner of Cerberus, my mind wandered back to a particular day, two years ago when Husband had held the little ball of fat up to me and said, "Can we keep him?"

      I'd looked at the two Deliverance rein-actors we were buying the dog from and the bedroom we'd been escorted into, and said, "Umm...if we take this dog, will you promise not to chase us through the woods and make us squeal?"

     "Yes 'em. Besides, even if you didn't want that thur dog, we always gives everyone's a hed stert."

     Husband's eyes met mine, and suddenly, I was looking at Bambi. "Sweetheart, now's not the time to pretend you're a dear."

     "But he's so cute."

     I looked at the dog, who was smiling at me. "How big will he get?"

     The guy pointed to the sofa, which started moving. "Bout that big. That's his daddy."

     "Aww, sweetheart, isn't that cute? They've bread this thing so it can eat us in our sleep. I can't wait, can you? Like I always say- you haven't lived until you've been eaten feet first." Turning to my right, I ran straight into the refrigerator. "What the heck is your refrigerator doing in the bedroom?"

     "That's his momma."

     Hugging myself, I turned backto Husband, who was still holding the puppy in front of him, singing Kumbyah and weaving flowers through it's fur. I looked at the seller."Well, isn't she just a beauty queen. How much does she weigh?"

     "Bout seven hunderd pound."

     Flea's momma belched and the roof caved in above me. I blinked the shingles out of my eyes."Mmm...she's so...dainty."

     "That's our Buttercup."

     Husband beamed, eyes brimming. "Buttercup. That's so beautiful. How'd you come up with that?"

     The wife licked her teeth and chimed in. "We left some margereen on the stove and it melted while she's bein born."

     "Lovely."

     Husband sighed, "I hate real butter, too", and went back to rubbing the puppy's belly.

     While I inched toward the door, he advanced on me and set the fat boxer in my hands. The destroyer that would be Flea looked up at me, patted my wrist with his paw and smiled again. Word to the wise, if a dog ever smiles at you, put it back where it came from. "I guess we can keep him." I said.

     After Flea was done harassing the cable man, he trotted back up to the deck and stood in front of me.
"That was a fine display of idiocy. I can only hope you're proud of yourself." Without a word, he opened the door, strolled inside and slammed the door behind him.
    
I'm so glad I have lots and lots of yoga to smoke....

Feel free to share any "I almost killed my dog..or cat...or feral gerbil" stories, here...

Until Next Time, Readers!