Yesterday, I woke up broken. I had ‘the allergies’ and my look was really suffering. I knew this before even setting foot on the carpet. I took a moment to congratulate myself for never hanging a mirror in my room. I know myself pretty well and my aim improves when I’m irritated. That coupled with the stupid amount of nick-knacks within reach would have resulted in seven years of bad something or another.
My face felt like a generic brand gallon ziplock filled with old jello. It was red jello. Cherry jello. The dog only opened one eye to regard me in my moment of self discovery. He doesn’t like to waste his attention. It is his currency. And he will always be rich for not having spent much of it.
I woke up, attended to exactly 45 minutes of tasks and returned to bed with prescription strength allergy meds and two anti-inflammatory pills. Some kids go to Ibiza, I go to CVS - and then back to bed.
I get that the normal routine is that I go to work and from 7am on, Buford sleeps. He sleeps until the dog walker comes, romances whichever girl that is for 30 minutes, she gives him a treat (or 5) and then he goes back to sleep again until we all come home around dinner time. So I guess he is used to an extra 8+ hours of sleep during the day. But Jesus, it is impressive to witness. I woke up twice between 8am and 3pm. Both times to go to the bathroom. Each time I asked him if he needed to go out. Each time he opened one eye, regarded me and went back to sleep. His bladder must be the entire size of his body. I think it must be his only organ. It’s a mouth with eyeballs and broken ears, attached to a GIANT bladder and capped off at the other end with a pooper. This is a direct-line-system, people.
He finally agreed to use his legs and go outside after 3pm. I stood out on the sidewalk with him blinking at the brightness while eating another massive rice crispy treat. I know I have a problem. I admit it. As we stood outside (dog was not interested in going for a walk - he just ambled to the corner and sat down like an anchor) every person I’ve ever met in my town came by to celebrate my dog.
It’s a weird feeling to be significantly less popular than your pet.
One guy, I think his name was Scott, full well yelled out this car window “Is that Buford from the internet?? I’m a have to pull over and meet him!”
There were points where I questioned whether I was actually awake. Veritable car loads of people drove by honking and waving and yelling out my dogs name.
“How did I end up in your fucking dream sequence?”
I might as well have been standing there leashed to a unicorn. It became irritating. Absolutely nobody knew my name. I literally pay to live here. I pay for the dog walkers. I drive 3.5+ hours a day to a job in another state to afford this life and the bloody dog is the one enjoying all the riches. And he never listens to me.
It became so absurd that I dragged him back inside. He looked at me (both eyes open now) and nodded towards the pantry door where the bones are kept. I made a small speech about how pets have to earn treats and he pretended to fall asleep in the middle of it. Meanwhile towns-people are still rolling by the house yelling the dogs name.
I ate another block of rice crispy treat and sarcastically read all the notes from the dog walkers journal to him. He was still pretending to be asleep. I touched the doorknob of the pantry and he stood up and rammed his nose to the crack where the door and the doorframe meet. He breathed deeply.
I gave in and opened the pantry door. He grabbed two bones from the self service bin at the bottom of the closet and trotted in to the other room to eat without me.
He trotted. He has the ability to go as fast as he wants, he just throttles it to drive me crazy.