Prologue. I went away on yet another boondoggle for a couple of weeks. Came back to find this actual live stuffed puppy had moved in.
Except for when Norma Louise packed her suitcase, the clearest sign our relationship was in deep trouble. From February 14, 1990. – JDW
Dear Jack D.
How are you and your puppy, Daisy, getting along?
(signed) Potential Dachshund Owner
Dear Potent,
Why not do yourself a favor and put a gun to your head first!
Which reminds me. Shouldn’t there be like a three-week waiting period, then maybe a State Police investigation of mental competency, before they let you buy a dog?
Besides, she is not my puppy. Not my puppy. It’s HER dog. As in, make your dog stop barking, please. Take my $195 Italian loafers out of your dog’s mouth, please. Clean up your dog’s mess, please.
I can’t prove it, but those teeth marks on my printer cable look like they could be YOUR dog’s.
It gets worse. As I know my landlord (Hi,Mark!) reads this column religiously, as so very many of you do, I must refrain from total candor here. Let me just say Grandma Cujo at Caveat Emptor Kennels told us this puppy was “partially” paper-trained.
Which I thought, silly me, meant sometimes little Daisy knew to answer nature’s call onto the Portland Oregonian and sometimes she forgot.
But nooooooooooo. Turns out the dog always remembers to use the paper, but stands on it only – you guessed it – partially.
With her front half. So, she thinks she is doing just great.
Norma Louise is handcuffed by maternal pride and I am wondering if maybe I shouldn’t try to teach Daisy to go on the rug. Use a little of that old reverse psychology my own mother used on me with such obvious success.
We can develop boneless chickens. Why not poopless puppies?
It gets worse. Norma Louise and I can’t be, ummm, alone. Together. Just the two of us. If you get my drift. Her folks don’t mind, my parents gave their blessing and the authorities aren’t interested. This is America and these after all are the Nineties. SOMEBODY TELL THE DOG, IT’S OKAY!
I could ignore the whining and the scratching, by Daisy, I mean. Even the howling and the barking. Still Daisy. But when the damn dog walked all the way into the kitchen and got a three-room running start and somehow launched her squat frame onto the bed, well, that’s all the proof I need.
The animal is possessed.
I expect you’ll see all three of us soon on “The Jerry Springer Show.”
