Jon de Vos – Take my wife’s dogs … please
Winter Park, CO Colorado
My wife has two dogs, incorrigible and stinky. That’s not their name; their names are Cuervo and Freeta.
Fortunately for mankind, they mostly sleep all day, draped over the furniture like hairy, territorial throw rugs. I mean, just look at them, sound asleep on the sofa, legs in the air, lips rolled back, lying there so still that, if they were roaches, Orkin would pronounce them dead and notify the next of kin.
They seem comatose, yet deep down at some sub-moronic level, I know they are keenly aware of the plump roasting chicken in the freezer.
They sleep all day, that is, until confronted with an imminent threat to human existence. Say, for instance, space aliens attacked and began to enslave all mankind. My wife’s dogs would know it first. In fact, my wife’s dogs know things so first that Rohm Emanuel checks in for updates.
Her dogs, she claims, can scare away monsters from outer-space, simply by chewing up sofa cushions. Unlikely, you say, but then can you be sure? My wife’s dogs could be the last bulwark between you, and a very sweaty you with a shovel toiling alongside the rest of your Grand County neighbors, digging up dilithium crystals for Medusa-headed monsters on the planet Zogg.
When they’re not busy chasing away outer-space monsters with tentacle hairdos, my wife’s dogs sleep all day. Well, that’s not quite true. Occasionally, oh say, every nine minutes, they jump up to play a quick game of “wreck the furniture.” They’re simple dogs; it’s a simple game. The strategy is to be the first one to chew up a sofa cushion. The winner is the first one to make me shriek.
My wife’s dogs sleep all day. Unless, of course, their slumber is disturbed by some horrid racket, such as falling snow, for instance. The minute some snowflake comes crashing to the ground, their instincts, honed by millennia as man’s best friend and protector, propels them to jump up, howling their idiot heads off, running around bumping into things in a hyena-type frenzy. Finally they dive onto the back of the sofa for a better view of the snowflake to see if it poses any imminent threat to the safety of the plump roasting chicken.
The sofa, long-wearied by similar assaults, obligingly slides across the hardwood floor like a bald-tired Yugo on ice, it’s rocketing trajectory abruptly halted by our formerly nice desk. Barking like, well, hyenas, the dogs jitterbug across the back of the sofa until the leather starts to wear down their toenails, at which point they yawn and slither off to bed to let them grow out again.
The only times my wife’s dogs don’t sleep is at night. Oddly enough, this is exactly the time of day that my wife and I have chosen for our own sleep. At night the dogs are constantly on the prowl, alert, vigilant, ever watchful for the possibility of a desperate pork chop leaping out of the refrigerator in a daring dash for freedom. Thanks to their watchful eye, like prisoners from Alcatraz, no pork chop has ever escaped from our house, just as no spaceship has swallowed Tabernash. So far.
True insanity is doing the same thing over and over, while expecting exactly the same results. My wife’s dogs are nuts and I wonder what effect they’ve had on me. Every time they blow up over absolutely nothing, or take it upon themselves to wreck some formerly nice part of our house, I seek out my wife and in a quiet, resigned voice I say to her, “You need to do something about your dogs.”
She stares out the window for several moments before replying slowly in a flat, listless, monotone, “My dogs? I thought they were your dogs.”
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