Yet Another Lady with a Pet Dog
I knew a woman who owned the most devoted dog. With floppy ears and big feet, this genial mix of mongrel and pedigree followed her everywhere. When she said, "Sit," it sat. When she said, "fetch," it lay the teeth-marked checkbook at her feet.
Everyone remarked how fortunate she was to have one whose loyal eyes followed her about the room, who bounced and wagged in the driveway when she returned from a trip, a dog who was grateful to sleep at the foot of her bed and who lapped the crumbs beneath her table.
Unfortunately, the dog's devotion began to get on her nerves. Some days, when she looked at him, the canine's eyes appeared red-rimmed and rheumy, and, when she peered into his brown pupils, she suspected dog dementia.
Whenever she prepared for a trip, the dog sensed her departure and lay directly on her feet. When she opened the door of her flashy coupe, the big dog made himself small and tried to fit into the back seat. Angry at dog hairs and muddy paws, she raised her hand and yelled, "Get out! Get out!" As the dog retreated from the car with his tail between his legs, she hated him for making her feel mean and coarse.
The feeling didn't go away. At night, she began to loathe the sound of his breathing. One day, she once again yelled, "Get out! Get out!" and the dog skulked down the stairs. Her ire only increased his vigilance and devotion.
One day she realized that the dog, the house, the village itself had become intolerable. She packed a bag, jumped into her coupe, and drove to the other side of the world.
The dog waits for her return.
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