UNITED STATES—My “master” is going through a transformative period in the supply-chain of stories. He is experiencing an affliction commonly referred to as writer’s block, hitherto unknown to him, but for rare occasions like college term papers. Just now he took off his socks, and the notion of trimming his toenails is most inviting. “Wait!” I bark, “Where do you think you’re going, smartypants?”
“Just to reheat some coffee…”
“Get back here. Get back to woik,” I howl.
“The walk to the kitchen will do me good,” my master retorts.
Odd now why after letting his toenails grow for three months, the task takes on urgency. Washing the dishes would be a good break, too, from the blank screen. Or let the ear dawdle in the chords being strummed by a musician neighbor. Yes, indeed, this would be just the time to get the acoustic guitar out of the case, and further his guitar-playing skills.
Now the master hears my obedient companion, Baby Deville, the Chihuahua terrier snoring on the couch. He could certainly use a walk around the block. Unlike me, Reina Lupe, the Chihuahua mix will leap forward when the leash is dangled. Yes, there is so much to do: doggie limbs to be rescued from lethargy, doggy poop to be bagged, and gotten out of the way while it’s still daylight out. To the contrary, it leaves the master wide-open to Lupe’s revenge.
Which is, you come back home at night ready to call it a day and even take the extra precaution of turning on your phone flashlight to nimbly step on the curbstones, thoroughly scan all bougainvillea-petal-strewn surfaces with a hawk eye. And still get in the door with doggie mush lodged in your waffle heel. Humility is a virtue, and big-hearted Lupe is nothing if not a booster for humanitarian causes, such as maintaining serenity under extreme pressure, against all odds.
At all events, the master succumbed to the Chihuahua terrier’s willingness to go for a walk around the block, soon as the silver clasp on the red leash was dangled. Out they went, and Baby DeVille got to evacuate somewhere around the cigarette-butt-littered planter in front of a local jazz club. What’s more, he got to meet and greet both a fellow Chihuahua terrier and a bulldog.
Meanwhile, Lupe mois obdurately lay on the pillow on the side of the sofa where the master usually places his feet at bedtime. It is siesta time, alright, even as the sun is still out and the reek of hot asphalt, most unpleasant to the “master” pervades the atmosphere as a canine eminence lolls and human bipeds prepare for the next deluge.
To be continued…
