Hi! My name’s Bad Bad Dog. What’s yours?
Sometimes I get a bit of yogurt when papa finishes his really good ones, because I could care less about that zero-fat, unflavored stuff and want only a finger of the sweet ones. And there’s another thing we can’t have: sugar! Or the really bad one, chocolate, which I seriously crave every now and then but have put on the back burner. The craving, not the chocolate.
Speaking of which, my adopted auntie, Barbara, mama’s ex-sister-in-law (I know this is confusing but you haven’t heard anything yet; just wait ’til I get into the subject of wives and ex-wives and stepkids and stepgrandkids and families) used to raise bearded collies. Those are dogs. You know, those simpering, fawning, drooling creatures who give their owners (rightly named) a big, oh-poor-me-please-throw-me-a-bone look when they want something or else they bark like banshees with no manners at all and wake up the neighborhood in attempts to be considered a good watch-dog, when actually a squirrel or some tiny thing has just run across the back yard; you know those guys, right?
Well, this auntie had a dog name Myggin, whatever that means, and Myggin loved chocolate. Dogs + chocolate = bad, bad things. Pooping all over the house, vomiting everywhere with no discipline whatsoever and it’s well known that chocolate can kill a dog (or kitty, but we won’t mention that). Not this one. Myggin did not like mama’s mama, my auntie’s ex-mother-in-law, who was visiting for Easter holidays and had opened her suitcase in the guest room, leaving a large, gold-wrapped, beribboned box of Godiva bon bons in the suitcase until she could put it in a special Easter basket for Barbara.
You guessed it.
Myggin shows up, wagging her devil’s tail, her beard smeared with praline ganache and god knows what else and proceeds to go somewhere and lose her bon bons, so to speak, all over wherever it is they go—one would hope the kitchen or bath for easy cleaning—and the St. John knit (read: $$$$) mama’s mama had left on her bag to smooth out the travel wrinkles was covered in several flavors of Godiva where Miggin had made herself comfortable to get revenge for having an anti-dog person in her house. This dog was really, really smart; when you get no petting, you get even. It was probably worth it for that sly doggie, but you won’t catch me jumping up on counter tops or rummaging around in the chocolate stash that I know is in one of the cupboards in the dining room. But do I care?
Mama’s giving me a Easter egg. So there!
