Flashback to my Prison Romance:
It was a love-at-first-sight story fit for a television drama, (my Lady likens it to the esteemed Jerry Springer show). The story goes like this:
Anyway, back to today. So I darted into the kitchen ready to battle a foe in an effort to protect my dear Lady, but no danger seemed present. My poor Lady stood at the kitchen sink weeping profusely into a pile of dirty dishes that she was half-heartedly scrubbing.
I sprang to the counter, and she didn’t even scold me.
“Hello Norman. Our poor Hell Hound seems very ill. Milk Man has taken her off to the doctor and I think she may never return.” My Lady was in hysterics at the thought.
Strangely, I found myself grinning. “But, dear Lady, I thought we both agreed that we hate that dog,” I said, flabbergasted.
“Oh, Norman! I don’t. She was my first baby. Before my human babies I practiced on Hell Hound. She’s bad because I screwed up raising her big time, letting her eat table scraps, sleep in my bed, chew stuffed animals for entertainment... I was a bad dog parent, and that’s why she became a Hell Hound. Now she’s sick, maybe gone forever, and I never told her that I really do love her.”
I felt a tear welling up in my left eye, or maybe not.
“Norman!” she cried. “You are totally out of line here, but maybe you do have a point.
After all, Hell Hound has lived an intriguing life filled with adventure and grand larceny theft. If she's gone I won’t have to worry about her running off anymore with the wallets and cell phones of house guests. I’ll be able to walk outside without the fear of having to tear a helpless bird out of Hell Hound's mouth, or beat her off me as she shreds my coat with her pointy little teeth. I won’t have to deal with angry Communist leaders who send her back to me in the mail. We will finally get to go on vacation without worrying about the kennel owner calling us to pick her up and pay for chewed iron fences. The human babies in this house will never have their snacks stolen right out of their hands again!”
Suddenly, mid sentence, my Lady was smiling through the tears. Then I witnessed her pull out the vacuum with new-found energy as she began to clean away every trace of that dastardly Hell Hound. I paw high-fived her and sat in the middle of the room, slapping my tail and purring the tune from The Wizard of Oz,
I paused only a moment, attentive to the sound of footsteps on the gravel driveway. My Lady hushed the vacuum.
“It’s over," I said, gleefully. "Milk Man has done the deed. Maybe we’ll keep him around after all. And ring the bells out! Ding Dong' the merry-oh, sing it high, sing it low.
Let them know … Come on, join me in jubilant song, my Lady!”
She was starring out the window, her complexion deadly pale. Overcome with a curiosity common to my species, I jumped on the sill and glanced outside. Immediately I fell into a swoon. There, hobbling up the driveway was Milk Man and Hell Hound, alive and well.
I came back to consciousness after five minutes of mouth to snoot cat resuscitation. My Lady was leaning over me, smiling.
“Norman! You’re alive! I’m so grateful that both of my pets are well after all!”
I spent the rest of the day flat on my back throwing my paws up at God.