As head of the clan, I had ruled out the possibility of another pet ever since our dachshund came back from a walk, jumped to his perch on the sofa, but went straight instead to a place where dogs are forever wagging their tails over bowls full of gristle and bone. A few days back, my son came to me and said, “I am getting my sister a pup for her birthday, on approval, so let’s not have any arguments.” On the morning in question, as I sat reading the papers, a breeder brought over a cage and set it on the floor to let out a ball of fluff with a pointy tail that promptly rolled over and gave me a sharp nip.
You can’t be rude to a visitor in your home, even if the visitor has sharp claws and sharper teeth and is only six weeks old. But my act of picking it up and letting it lick my nose and chew on my ear was taken as acquiescence, prompting my son to suggest I sign the cheque that was due to the breeder. Not wanting to squabble in front of a stranger, I did so, but only after extracting a promise from my son that he would settle his dues some time soon, which probably meant never in his lexicon. His sister gave him a hug for “his” birthday gift to her, while I earned a sharp reprimand for putting the pup down on the cold floor.
“Who’s to look after him?” I asked at the breakfast table. “Don’t look at me,” said my wife, “if you’ve paid for him, you can look after him, too.” “Hello,” said my son, “I arranged the present, my part of the contract is done.” “You can’t give me a present and ask me to spend my day caring for it,” protested my daughter, “that’s so unfair.” The cleaning ladies and the cook knew they didn’t have a choice in the matter, but promptly asked for salary raises, which was difficult to refuse with the puppy leaving little doggie puddles everywhere.
On the night in question, for the party we’d arranged for our daughter, it was decided that the pup was too small to be exposed to so much excitement, and would need babysitting. So, I was confined to the bedroom, the pup’s cot safely beside me, watching TV and listening to the party going on outside. Thankfully, someone had thought to give me a drink.
The following day my wife and daughter flew away for a holiday – “a proper gift”, my wife said to me smugly – with detailed instructions on how the pup was to be managed in their absence. “Don’t let him into my bedroom, he’ll chew up my shoes,” my daughter said. In the event, the week since they’ve been gone has seen my loafers develop holes; he’s bitten the strap off my watch; my belts are scarred; his sharp nails have snagged the yarn on my new sweaters; he chews anything but his chewy toys, mostly preferring my ankle, or fingers, or nose. His perpetual diet keeps him – and me – awake all night: he in ecstasy, me in pain.
The neighbours have knocked in concern to ask about the sounds of distress emanating from the apartment. When I asked my son to share the night-time load, here’s what he said, “I work all day, dude, and I party at night. Don’t expect me to look after your pet for you.”
