It’s been decided.
My parent’s puddle, Sophie, is Satan’s next of kin.
Not to be confused with being next of kin to Satin, which is how I spelled the name of the evil underlord for the majority of my elementary school years.
(Oh, what a difference a single letter makes. I also had trouble with fetal and fatal in association with a pig I dissected in third grade. I wrote a detailed description of the dissection of my fatal fetal pig my mom has kept for posterity.)
But back to the puddle. (Just in case you think I’m making a typo, remember, in honor of our Serbian friend our poodles have been renamed “puddles”. That’s just the way we are.)
I have no one to blame but myself for Sophie’s introduction into our family. Almost three years ago my parent’s beloved puddle, Munchkin, died. It was the second time I’d ever seen my dad cry and my, oh my, was he keening.
I couldn’t stand it and immediately started researching available puddles so he would have a new companion to curl up on his lap while he satiated his Fox News Channel addiction.
Sophie was born in a backwoods Oklahoma town. She was living in a doublewide trailer with 22 other puddles of various ages and stages and an older lady who spent her Social Security income on dog food rather than basic needs, like dental hygiene and deodorant.
There were several puppies available that day and I fell in love with a tiny puff-ball who breathed on me with sweet puppy breath and it was like Cupid’s arrow had found my heart. But Uno had discovered Sophie and I realized I would have to pry Sophie’s puppy body out of my wailing child’s hands if I didn’t capitulate with her choice of puddle.
I chose the easy road and got Uno’s choice, waited while my sweet old lady gave her shots, bundled Sophie into Stella, drove five and a half hours to meet my parents in a Bed, Bath and Beyond parking lot in Amarillo, Texas and made the exchange.
Uno chose her name, too.
Since that time Sophie has ruled the roost. She’s obnoxious. She barks at everything and drags the Lhasa Apso across the floor by its tail for fun. She sits on the highest perch she can find so most nights we watch t.v. with the awful white puff-ball curled on top of the sofa, nuzzled in our hair.
She also sleeps on top of the end tables and has been known to prance on top of the dining room table to snatch a little snack.
As irritating as Sophie’s personal habits have been up to this point, we have loved her anyway because she curls up nicely on my dad’s lap and seems to have a crush on Bill O’Reilly and tolerance for Glenn Beck.
But last night she crossed the line.
When we walked in from a long day trying to get the RV ready for habitation again she danced around and barked and chirped at us, then climbed on top of the sofa and made an excremental deposit.
She pooped on the furniture! This is, in no uncertain terms, completely unacceptable.
Sophie bolted from the scene of the crime and Lizard cleaned up thoroughly, and we started searching for her.
And found her in the bookshelf, hiding. In the bookshelf.
(Next to a copy of The Strong-Willed Child which I find kind of amusing. What’s not amusing is my parents own it… what does that say about me?!)
She wouldn’t meet our eyes and you could see she knew she was in trouble. We fussed at her and zzsted a few times a la the Dog Whisperer, but then we left her alone.
And she’s still hiding underneath the recliner.
Puddles are really dumb, but they’re also really smart. It’s amazing a puddle can feel shame.
Of course, if she’s smart enough to feel shame she shouldn’t have made the mistake in the first place. Sigh.
(As a fun sidenote, while researching the photo for this post I came across the Poodle Hall of Shame. The photos are hilarious and so I showed them to my mom. Her response? “That’s awful. That’s just so mean. Poodles are smart and they know when people are laughing at them. I don’t like that at all.” Ha!)
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