Carolyn
J. Rose
I live
with a ten-pound tyrant.
If
there is a dog out there with a stronger sense of entitlement and privilege than
Max the Maltese, I’ve yet to meet that canine.
I’ve
shared space and time with a dozen dogs over the years. Every one of them would
seek me out and relax against me for a hug or a cuddle. Not Max. He doesn’t
cuddle and, unless he’s hungry or wants to go out, doesn’t look for me at all.
He hangs with the Y chromosome guys. If there are no men around, he makes
himself comfortable in the basement man cave and waits for one to appear.
Even
after nine years of this, I still try to win him over. I offer full-body
massages, ear scratches, tummy rubs, and treats. Like a potentate receiving
tribute from his subjects, he accepts it all as if it’s no more than what’s due
to a dog in his lofty position.
There
are days, perhaps 50% of them, when he condescends to lick my nose when I ask
for a kiss after getting him into his harness and clipping on the leash in
preparation for a walk. But he offers only a single lick. On other days I get
the thousand-yard stare. Occasionally I decide to wait him out and stare back.
One day out of 20, perhaps in the spirit of noblesse
oblige, he relents and delivers the barest tongue-tip of a lick. Nineteen
days out of 20, I cave and we go out the door.
And
yet I come back for more—although I often ask myself why. In the course of my
life I’ve walked away from several unbalanced relationships like this one. But
this little guy has his paws around my heart. All he has to do is cock his head
and give me the doggie equivalent of a smile and he’s guaranteed himself
another week of excusing his refusal to obey my commands and overlooking his
snubs.
So I
work with what I have. And I make what I have work for me. I use Max as a model
for Cheese Puff, the scruffy orange mutt from my Subbing isn’t for Sissies
mystery series. In appearance, they’re nothing alike, but their attitudes and
actions are similar.
And,
okay, they’re similar because I transfer fact to fiction. But according to the
fine print on my poetic license, I’m allowed to do that.
