Dad here: mom just fried up some maple-flavored crack cocaine, er, bacon, and brought a plate to the bedroom for me to sample. Of course, her approach down the hall was announced by a cacophony of dog hooves clattering on the faux wood flooring, produced by a posse of prancing pups hoping to relieve her of her burden before she ever makes it to her final destination.
I find it odd that the smallest dog is always the one that makes the most racket; Marco’s toenail cadence is at least three times that of the other dogs, and his demanding yips and yowls are the most annoying sound of anything this side of a televised political debate, or, dare I say it, The View.
So mom leaves me with two slices of artery-clogging nirvana, and takes the rest of the stash back to the kitchen from whence it came. As I begin to inhale the narcotic aroma in anticipation of indulging in my gluttony, I felt a sudden disturbance in the force; somehow, something just didn’t feel “right” about the situation.
Was it my conscience telling me that, yes, I do have an addiction, and should seek intervention?
Then I realized what it was; although mom had left with the full plate, all of the inmates were still hovering around me like a cloud of vultures, eyeing my meager two pieces with looks of total entitlement. That’s when it dawned on me; my problem wasn’t the addiction, but that I’m an enabler, a total pushover, the new fish walking across the prison yard of life, easy pickings for those whose senses have been honed to recognize and exploit any sign of weakness in others.
In my case, dogs in general, or more specifically, the hardended criminals of the Casa del Whackos.
When did this affliction start? I really can’t remember a time that dogs didn’t rule my life, and it only seems to get worse as I age. As I drive down the road, I find myself talking to dogs that can’t even hear me, dogs in other cars, dogs trotting across fields, whatever; this is usually not a problem as long as I’m alone, but occasionally will have a customer with me who finds it a bit “odd”, to say the least.
Unless they themselves happen to be “dog people”. I figured out a long time ago that there are three types of people: people who don’t like dogs, people who like the idea of having a dog(the vast majority), and dog people.
For better or worse, I am a dog people.
There, I admitted it. They say that admission of addiction is the first step towards recovery; I say that they, whoever “they” happen to be, are full of partially digested Gravy Train, at least in this case.
Because this addiction isn’t caused by a physical craving(well, it is, but we’ll discuss that later) but on love. What but love caused the first wolves, the ancestors of our current masters, to desert their own packs and wild freedom to become the servants of man? And this very completeness of love can also earn him/her the term of deepest contempt, “you dog!”
The least I can do for thousands of years of absolute loyalty is to attempt to return the favor during my short time as the Warden of the Casa del Whackos.
But I’m still not giving up my bacon…
(Charlie here: he’s lying like a politician under oath; we got our share of the bacon, don’t you worry about that)