The other day my son made the following observation about our dog named Roxy, “God, this dog has a great life.” Roxy’s head shot up and she stared at him intently. I could swear she was sneering, as if to signal, “Dude, you’ve got it all wrong.”
I’m sure if dogs could talk they’d set us straight. They’d remind us that it’s no fun to have to squat on the ground when there’s ten inches of snow. They’d point out the fact that their paws freeze in the winter and cook in the summer as they trek through the neighborhood on walks they don’t want to participate in. They’d tell us that it’s no fun to have to sniff the ground where other dogs have already done their business. They’d indicate they’re ready to trade their dog food for our sirloin steak.
Yes, I’m sure Roxy would readily hand over her collar and leash to me and say, “Here, you put these on and I’ll lead you around.” She’d mention how she finds it completely irritating to be taught new tricks that only get her a doggie treat which tastes like three-day old fish. She’d state she’s sick of wearing the little outfits I put on her and suggest maybe I should be the one to wear them. She’d say she’s tired of me lying to her every time we go to the vet for shots and I tell her everything’s going to be okay.
Yes, if dogs could talk they’d set the record straight by announcing they’re done. No more canned dog food that leaves their breath smelling like ass. No more being thrown a lame stick and ordered to fetch. No more being woken up early in the morning to pee and poop when it’s snowing or raining. No more flea collars that makes their skin itch.
Yet little Roxy has discovered a way to balance out the universe: She gets even. She poops and pees in the house the instant she comes in from her 30 minute walk. She hurls on the leather sofas. She chews on shoes and doesn’t discriminate whether they’re Coach, Choo, or you know who. She scratches the hardwood floors, hides socks in her bed, lies on my cashmere sweater and tangles me in her leash every chance she gets.
Yep, little Roxy may be stuck being a dog in this life but if she could talk she’d ask, “From one bitch to another, who’s the one picking up poop?”