Or, Who the Hell Do I Think I Am?
So, yeah, it’s true. The Pseudo-Husband and I talk to our dog. A lot.
More embarrassing, she talks to us, she leaves notes around the house, and at times even shares on Facebook.
Her only expensive vice (aside from that annoying tendency of hers to see the vet once a year)(meaning once so far, when she was 2 months old) is sending the occasional greeting card. Her taste is eerily similar to Bob’s, except that she limits herself to cards featuring canines. Makes sense, I guess. Her world view, and all.
I always swore I’d never be one of those people who referred to the father of her children as Daddy. And I never did. I lived up to that promise. (That’s one promise I kept. And I’ve just set myself the goal of thinking of another before the decade’s end. Wish me luck.)
Back on point, though. So instead, I call the co-caretaker of our pup, “Daddy.”
Sitting at the biggest existing frickin’ iMac in the world (which I own because otherwise my one functioning eye glazes over and can’t read anymore after about 4 hours on a smaller computer), with Tipsy the Chihuahua hopping aboard the swinging hospital table that comprises my desk and holds said iMac, I often call out, “Daddy, call Tipsy! She wants to tell you what she did! She’s so good. What a dog!”
Daddy, aka Pseudo-Husband, then obligingly calls out, “Tipsy? What did you do? Come tell me, Tippy-Toe! What did my good girl do??”
Tipsy runs to Daddy. Bonding in their mutual joy and basking in delight at her (non)accomplishment, both have been cheated and lied to. Tipsy thinks Daddy is offering a puppy treat. Daddy believes Tipsy has done something good. Because I said so.
But I lied. I simply wanted Tipsy off my desk and out from in front of my deluxe, jumbo-tron, million-color screen. They are both fools in the hands of a master. For I am evil.
So let’s tally up my finer points:
1. I lie to an innocent, hapless dog.
2. I lie to my (non)husband.
3. I misuse a hospital tray-table, because…
4. I am not in the hospital, I’m merely a little pain-prone. So…
5. I usually work in bed, which frankly is terribly, awfully lazy, even if it does help with pain.
6. Worse yet, I’m still frequently wearing a nightgown at suppertime.
7. No, this is worse: Sometimes I’m only then going to bed from the day before. And worst of all,
8. I call my dog’s co-parent “Daddy.”
9. And that’s awfully damn close to calling the father of my child (though I never had one) “Daddy.”
10. In fact, I’d say it’s just the same (other than species, and that’s minor).
And that leads me to the real point of this post, (which I didn’t realize until now, but it just may be this: My sole, single, only promise made and kept, as reported to you just moments ago, is broken.
Aw, crap. I feel so cheap. Yes, cheap and tawdry. Cheap, tawdry, and damn, I’m a big liar!
But what can I say? It’s who I am right now.
Now that’s just scary!
Hey. Talk to my dog here, alright? Can’t you see she’s a victim?