UNITED STATES—We are about to enter the Lupe zone, a place where the pinnacle of human achievement is matched by the deepest canyons of depravity. It’s about time to forget about time, slide rules and space, and go into the deep reaches of Lupe’s mind… My handler during the longueurs of a typical week, lives in a constant state of smoldering anxiety. He goes absolutely mad when not able to locate the halter of the little dog, my tiny companion DeVille. That’s what you get for listening to all those wanton suggestions of neighbors who mention, “He will be so much more comfortable without the halter.” Lacking the wisdom to ignore all the suggestions that people have to offer, he caves in and takes it off. Only to hyperventilate and get borderline hysterical when the aqua blue halter for little Baby DeVille is nowhere to be found.
The white-bearded one (it used to give the impression of being brown), before my residence here began in late puppyhood) is frantic. Boiling with animosity for heeding “helpful” advice spouted by busybodies, then recriminating himself for harboring the same animosity for those people. How could he stoop as low as they? How indeed. What a cast of rogues they were. The Professor, Ginger and the rest, and now there were strangers, too, who breezed in for a rented stay. It was so easy to ignore them and not greet them as strangers, and the alienation grew like the hole in the ozone. When my handler finally bequeathed the modicum of recognition on one middle-aged woman, enquiring how long she was to stay, the reply was blunt.
“I’m leaving tonight.”
“Well, I guess I caught you in in the nick of time.”
“Au revoir… Bon voyage.“
He stubbed his toe on a boulder placed alongside the walkway to the street. Cursed himself for this unholy war between misanthropy and bonhomie. And why the devil had the catman, the neighbor with a fondness for felines over people, boast of the virtues of staying away from dogs, and to by all means to stay away from the dishwater blond visitor from Colorado, Wisconsin, Dallas, Fort Worth. Who knew? But is made the brief encounter final encounter rebellious and satisfying.
“Dogs, you know shed hair. They pee. They defecate prolifically.“
Yes, it was humiliating to walk into the white tiled kitchen and step into a turd. It made the hours away from the cozy home a mild but uninterrupted torture. What will I find when I come home. What will be there? No, it is not my purpose to drive Mister to insanity, but I’ll say he’s doing a pretty good job of it himself.
Now take Sunday, a wonderful day with blase corners for most folks. He left me to blob around the house, glued to the floor, while parading the little fella DeVille in that place he goes every Sunday. That’s cause I obey no man. The dangle of a leash in front of me will spark no obedient leap like that lapdog DeVille. And last Sunday DeVille vanished into thin air. High and low he looked and nowhere was a trace of the perky Chuihuahua-terrier.
To be continued…
