Parasites

I'm not a dog person. I never really liked dogs, but I can tolerate them. They just seem too needy and overly pleasing compared to my sloth-like, hedonistic values. They must always know their place. And that place is at least 100 feet from me at all times. Last year, in the spring I think, my parents got a dog. Now mind you, they have had dogs in the past. Of course, 90% of them ended up ran-over in the middle of the highway, but not this new dog. She's blessed.

This little furry dog, that probably weighs ten pounds, is the pride-and-joy of my parents. It is the child they never had. They dote, they spoil, they indulge this horrid thing. The irony is that my mother is the one who used to criticize her own aunt for the same actions. But now, they are one in the same. It's like the two musketeers of well fed rat-dogs.

This dog, of course, lives in the house. She eats her weight in cat shit each day. My mother says she is fickle, because she doesn't eat her over-priced, designer dog food. (Mother, though, overlooks the previous stated fact about the kitty snacks.) In fact, this dog eats anything that goes into her mouth, with the exception of dog food. I've seen her devour used toilet tissue, Kleenex, anything in the garbage basically.

Then, there's the humping. I didn't realize this, because I'd never seen it before, but female dogs are humpers. This dog humps anything with or without a pulse. I'm an exception. Mom says is shows she is dominate over all she surveys. She surveys me and goes the other way. I'm not mean to her, perse; I just set limits. I suppose I am the surrogate alpha. She has tried the crawling on her belly, eyes lowered routine with me, but I'm not buying it. She's selfish. Unyielding. As am I. I will persevere.

Am I jealous? You bet. This dog has received attention that I was denied as a child. My mother's kisses and acceptance was all being saved for this dog. I've surmised that it may be her way of compensating for grandchildren she has never had. Perhaps, if she had small kids to love, then the dog I so unlovingly call Cujo, may take a backseat. But somehow I doubt it. Even my father takes her on long, tethered walks that I never got as a boy. It's absurd!

I did once tell mom that if this dog--and I--survived her and Dad, not to fear. Whichever of them goes last--Mom or Dad--would get the pleasure of taking the dog with them into eternal bliss. A companion for the ages. I'm a good son, goddamnit!