By Anne Sullivan
Sylvia was all smiles and wags when I drove up to the house after a month-long trip to Australia and New Guinea. Since it was the season of shedding, the wags were extremely productive and soon my jeans were covered with wisps of brown hair.
“I see you’re back,” Sylvia said. “What did you bring me?”
“Well,” I answered as I struggled into the house with some of my luggage, Sylvia at my heels, “I was going to bring you a handsome leather doggie coat from Australia but they didn’t have it in Extra Large.”
“You mean like your size,” she replied, venom dripping from her mouth. It was as though I’d never left home.
To gain her favor, I opened my suitcase. “Here,” I said after a lengthy search, “I brought you a chocolate bar with a picture of a dingo on it. The picture looks just like you, only younger.” I handed it to her.
“How nice,” she said. “But where’s the chocolate?”
“Oh, I had to eat it. You know chocolate is bad for dogs.”
“I hope it was good.”
“It was.” I salivated at the memory while watching Sylvia chew a hole in the dingo picture.
I took the hint. “I’ll bet you want your dinner.”
“I certainly do. It’s past ten o’clock.”
As I was spooning out the kibble topped with a touch of Pet Pride, I heard Sylvia behind me talking to the wall.
“I’ll bet SHE didn’t spend one single minute thinking about me while SHE was away,” she muttered.
“Who are you betting with? And you don’t have to talk around me. I can hear you. I’ll have you know I thought of you just the other day when I ate in a German restaurant in Sydney. That was the first time in 12 years I didn’t leave with a doggie bag. I had to eat all the steak by myself because I couldn’t bring you half.”
“Why couldn’t you?”
“I couldn’t take it with me on the plane – no refrigeration.”
“I might have known,” she sneered with sadness. “Nothing for Sylvia. Out of sight, out of mind.”
“You’re very Eeyoreish tonight. Excuse me while I get my violin to accompany your plaint.”
She glared at me as she finished gobbling her kibble. I ignored her while I put my Stouffers dinner into the microwave.
Sylvia whined and I figured she wanted out. As I went to the door a woebegone Sylvia was mumbling. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it. I tried to get out but I couldn’t.”
When I neared the door I was able to see what she was sorry for.
On the threshold lay her dinner in a pathetic puddle.
“You threw up!” I exclaimed. “I knew it. You were eating too fast.”
I could scarcely hear her answer, “ I know. I couldn’t help it. I was just so excited that you were home.”
“It’s okay, Sylvia. I’ll clean it up and in a few hours I’ll make you some nice rice. Now I know I’m really home and truly home,” I said before I went to get some paper towels.
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