The Persistence of a Dog

Wise, Wises, Wisest, and Getting Wiser. Ricky.

Innocent ‘child’ when we found him. Now, the only goal is to get what he ‘needs’. Like some pate or a cat. Tho, to get tucked-in must be the biggest issue of his.

Walk? Ricky recognizes the word in the evening. He must think I am crazy, it’s only eight in the morning. I kept trying to show the ‘fun’ of an early walk. Failure and a waste of time. Before noon, he whinges all the way. Stops and looks back, as if to say, ‘Let’s go back. I miss my blanket.’

As smart as he is, he should know we’re walking a circle.

Ricky’s pad is no good without a blanket. Apparently, it’s cold and he will find a way. He sits next to me and stares. ‘Good boy,’ I pet him. Now, I must ignore him. Ricky keeps his cool. Then, a few nudges on the side of my ribs. Harder each time, the Dog is loosing his cool. Few minutes later, the ‘talk’ begins and the ‘idea’ gets loader.

‘Stop it,’ I say. ‘The house is warm.’

Ah, go on! Nudging my ribs again. Go on, nudge. Go on, nudge. Go on, nudge.

I kept my cool and it was quite again. Not for long! His needs were clearly misunderstood. Ricky is dragging the blanket across the house.  ‘Fine, but just this time,’ I often say.

Tail full of excitement, he leads a way.

Dumped by a Pigeon

Diary entry, 2003

‘Him-The Pigeon’ is what I called it. I assumed it’s a he. ‘A way to man’s heart is through his stomach,’  they say.

No Mass Sundays, I ‘prayed’ at my desk by the window. Ten o’clock sharp, a peck on the glass and the ‘fiesta’ began. Pigeon Sunday was a Crusty Sunday.

It was never a Monday, nor Tuesday, nor any other day. Curios why, I ‘forgot’ to feed him. The Pigeon came back on Monday, and Tuesday, and the next day. No more food, but he kept coming back.

‘His will deserves a cigar,’ I thought, and I left some crust for tomorrow.

Thursday evening the bread was gone. Was it him or the wind?

The pigeon was missing on Friday, and the next day. On ‘Crusty Sunday’ he came back. Happy to see ‘Him-The Pigeon,’ I opened the window, but he flew away. Crust on a Sunday was no longer good.

Was I Dumped by a Pigeon?

I missed him on Monday, and Tuesday, and the next day. Ten o’clock Thursday, a peck on the glass and the ‘fiesta’ began.

‘Thirsty Thursdays’ is what I called it.

‘Picture Perfect’

Longing the ‘Picture Perfect’, I waited four months. A light drizzle and time to waste. At last, ‘Room 69‘ has a Red Umbrella.

It was different this time. The number was no surprise, and the Polish woman was missing. A much younger receptionist now sat in her place. Should I make the same joke?

’69!’ I said. ‘It’s a shame I’m staying alone.’

‘That’s hilarious.’ She laughed and I tutted her.

Brand new, the room had a fresh coat of paint. Hugging the ‘shallow pillow’, a steel framed giant stood under a lit paper globe. ‘Grandma’ curtains and a picture of Jesus got replaced by a cheap linen and a print of flowers.

‘Jesus,’ I thought. ‘At least the view is the same.’

Outside and down the window, a proud tree was still guarding the bike. To ‘find’ the owner, I took a closer look. Spanish/Italian voice came from inside a cafe, ‘Do you want to buy it?’

I shook my head, ‘I can’t spoil the ‘Picture Perfect.’

‘Let’s be Free!’

Asleep for too long. Nice and peaceful, but I have nothing to say. Not to you, I don’t. My thoughts, they aren’t perfect. And you seek for perfection.

‘It’s beautiful to speak my mind.’ I hear nothing back, but I keep on talking. ‘Ugly to suppress it.’

Leave the cozy ‘nest’. You have to! Hands down and away from the eye, I leave. Beat and tired of pretending. Spring is here!

Dog is crazy! Howling like a mad man outside. Rubbing his neck in a scent. It’s not pleasing to my eye, but I can’t interrupt. I don’t let myself.

‘Will you stop him?’ mum screams out the window.

‘What do you want me to do?’ I reply. ‘Bad dog! You’re doing what you’re suppose to!’

I let him have it. Just this time. Shit on his neck, he’s the happiest dog on earth. And I am happy too. We are in this together! Never mind a hard bath time it will put me through.

‘Let’s destroy the ugly,’ I talk the dog.

‘You seek for perfection?’ he says. ‘You Fool! Destroy it!’

‘Yea, I hear Ya. But I will wash You.‘

‘Don’t.’ he says. ‘Let’s be Free!’

‘Don’t Tell?!’

The situation has been avoided before. Not this time. Trap! Just the two of us. We ordered tea and took a seat by the window. As mint steamed my cheeks, her mouth filled the air. Heavier with each word.

‘Anyway, you’re so quite,’ she took a sip. ‘Tell me something… Tell!’

‘Yea, I don’t wanna be a headline.’

My misunderstood  answer got dismissed. This time round, I recognized the victim. Front Page Story: ‘His dirty laundry.’ She was so entertained by her mouth moving. Stick a sock in, it would not stop.

‘But Do Not say anything. Not to her,’ she giggled. ‘Imagine if you did!?’ laughing by now.

‘Don’t Tell?!’ Last time I heard the phrase was… back in primary school! The point, however, was always ‘Do Tell.’ An unconscious wish to stir up the boring days; A childish prayer to make a ‘girl’ cry. And, if you refused to participate:

‘Brace, brace, brace,’ back at you they ‘Bite!’

Finally. The girl did not stop for eighteen minutes. I kept a close eye on my watch. She took a sip and turned at me. I was baffled. Was she looking for a reaction? Maybe, a good story in return?

‘It’s nice outside…’

‘Yes,’ she turned her head for just a second. ‘Let’s hope your man don’t do it again. He did say…’

‘Hey! How are the girls?’ thankfully, a familiar voice. Just in time!

A Cheap Thrill

Next bus, half an hour to waste. I leaned over the cold wall. Unpaid magazine stories kept me warm. Yet, rather bored. Every page or two, I glanced over to the far side of the shop.

‘What,’ the clock shocked me each time. ‘Only a minute?!’

Beautiful girl skipped by. Large pages hid me away. Red lipstick, pink skirt, flippers… I wondered who the mother was.

The girl scanned the floor bravely. Her hands, however, trembled the shelved goods. Aisles were empty. Arms pressed tight to her chest,  she skipped out.

‘What did she take,’  few steps forward. ‘The little brat!’

‘Well done!’ I thought. The temptation to eat the stolen ‘candy’ was easy to refuse. The thrill of getting caught… harder.

‘Every girl,’ I glanced from side to side. ‘Needs a pair of men’s socks.’

Not for Consideration!

It’s been three months since the ‘eviction letter’.

What used to be an hour of ‘intimate stories’, got replaced by ‘La Parde de Haut-Bailly’. A Ruby in a glass. So silky, yet rich of taste. Add a good book and there you have it. A recipe for the night. And No! Not a book on ‘How To Get Him Back’.

‘A glass of wine,’ friends nose lingered around mine. ‘Is so much better than sex!’

To her, one of those is out of the question for nine months.

However today, I am not so sure about the last statement. I am meeting him tomorrow. Unshaven legs worked fine before, but mine were waxed. Waste of a good plan if you ask me.

Back to the drawing board! I make a list. Yes and a No. He is extremely handsome and… No, starting over. There is one column. 100% success! His idea of fun… in and out. Kissing? Romance? Just like the hair on my legs, non existent.

The fit of laughter came unexpected.  I tried to stop, couldn’t. A friend had to be told of this story. My cheeks blushed. I hid my face deep into a pillow.

‘I can only imagine ‘the list’ of his: Yes and No’

‘Not for Consideration!’