UNITED STATES—All’s quiet this side of Western Avenue on the eve of a certain holiday, just like the snowy white hairs of the obedient DeVille, Cadillac among dogs are woven into his master’s black pullover sweater, which would lead even a feeble-brained sleuth to presume there’s a white-haired dog in the household. The purr of the refrigerator was quiet enough, and now that it has ceased, it may be a bit too quiet for comfort. Of course the hairs from the beard of our master, as well. It’s gone snow-white of late. There’s an undeniable mesmeric quality picking the white doggie hairs off the knitted black helixes of his sweater, akin to the addictive pastime of popping stale air out of bubble wrap, when there’s nothing else to do.
Indeed, the place is eerily quiet. There are intermittent detonations that make the pit-bull lab Lupe and me, the Chihuahua terrier, both bark. And who’s to say that with the depleted Yuletide population of the city, it might be something slightly more sinister than a backfire. Lupe can be heard scratching, poor thing. The wintry cold wave has yet to cry victory over the blasted fleas. Maybe the announcement that global warming was all Mother Nature’s doing was a tad hasty.
Still, much is to be grateful for, such a locating a pair of scissors after three years AWOL. Now the master knows, at last where it is, and is able to trim hanging threads from his vintage jacket, which in the recent past he would’ve bitten off with his teeth or torn with his fingers. Thus, avoiding more destructive unraveling of this garment. We, the pets in his care, know all too well that the lengthy disappearance of a simple tool –scissors– from a home can upset the fragile apple cart of sanity.
The holidays for some, if not all of us, can incubate a disease known as melancholia tremens. One can bring a sudden linkage back into the feverish anticipation of getting just what was at the top of my list for Santa. Most of the time, I was delighted and surprised. Other times I did a publicity blitz. Then there were times when no clear choices offered. The lesson of time has been to clearly formulate an item on the list. At Least three, say. Peace on earth, a banana-yellow Corvette, and a red sweater. (You can always use a red.) And as for the peace on earth, I’d settle for pizza on earth, as old St. Nick may be a little hard of hearing and some humans discourage feeding bread and cheese to dogs, while others feel they are doing a dog a great favor.
As Lupe’s boon companion, I bear witness that pizza is not so good for Lupe’s poopy. Dear Santa, can I have a sirloin steak, medium rare. The obedient un-naughty DeVille. (Signed with a paw print).
To be continued…
