...the horror...the horror...
The Mooks don't get one thing: I can always understand them. They vaguely suspect I understand more English then I let on (beyond "sit" "bad dog" "stop that" etc.) but they don't know I understand everything in French, English, a little Italian and some pieces and bits of other languages. (You pick this up all your life—puppy mills, pounds, owners, alleys, during walks—and dogs absorb information far better than humans; it's the nose/brain thing.)
This is a valuable tool because it keeps me in the loop—indeed, so far in the loop, I'm pretty much the one twirling the lariat. It can be fun. Like the other day, Mook A was repeating a good joke to Mook B: "If your cat goes missing, don't bother to put up posters. 1) We don't care. 2) Your cat is dead." You can't beat a good dead cat joke.
But knowing the languages can also be irritating. For instance, we were all out on the balcony the other day, enjoying the warmth, listening to the rustle of the leaves and keeping squirrels away, when the Mooks started talking about me in French. They were discussing the fact that I was getting closer and closer to being able to open the screen door by myself. Indeed, I just run at it like mad, smash my nose into it and it jumps back a good foot before slamming shut on me. Then their nastiness began.
Mook A: You realize, we're going to have to get back into the habit of closing the inside door so he can't get out.
Mook B: Why?
A: As brilliant as the dog is, he's more like a retarded child—he doesn't understand consequence; he just goes for it. What would happen is we'd be out one day and he would run for the door, get it open, zip halfway through and the door would close before his big porker ass could get through.
(As A loses more weight—19 pounds and counting!!!! he never refrains from telling the world—the comments about my "porkiness" get more frequent. I don't like it.)
A: (Continuing) And then you know how he is. He'd start shrieking—
B: —shit—
A: —yeah. And every fucking neighbour would be out on their balconies and in the alley and calling the cops and the SPCA and we'd come home to find our door broken down and a citation for animal cruelty.
B: (Laughing) You're exaggerating!
A: Oh! You think? How about the time that he got his front paws and shoulders through the railings of the balcony and the only thing holding him back from a two-story fall was that gigantic arse of his! What did he do 'til I saved him? Panic and shriek!
B: ...good point.
A: I told you: he's a little bit of a tard: an idiot savant. Never underestimate both his smarts and his profound stupidity.
I had to work very hard in pretending to have my attention elsewhere as this went on. If they ever figure out I understand French, I lose a valuable weapon in this battle. But I can't say I was as amused as they seemed to be by this conversation.
Then A picked me up, looked me straight in the eyes and this time switched to English. "You know what would happen if you went back to the SPCA, Little One?" He waited to make sure I was listening. Oh! I was listening. "Your file would include the notation that your previous owners had had you for more than six months but still had not been able to control you. That would mean that no normal person would adopt you. Because of this, you'd find yourself owned by the only kind of person who would adopt you: a lunatic. Let me describe this person: 20-22, maybe, male, halfwit. He would tell his parents—he still lives with them in a basement room—he would take care of you, but he wouldn't. You'd hardly ever eat and when you did half the things you do here, he'd beat you like a gong."
My mouth went dry. You've got to say one thing about A: he paints a vivid picture. But it got more vivid. "When he was drunk on his parents liquor, he'd get sad and lonely and horny. He'd spend the first half of the night dealing with the reason no girl will touch him: his acne. Then, in a fit of drunkenness and horniness, he'd probably sodomize that fat ass of yours."
I could smell the guy's room: old sweat, pizza, feet, spunk. I could see the guy going from cuddles to...oh! my God!
The Mook went on. "And one day, his parents would find him hanging in the close where he'd pulled a David Carradine: auto-erotic asphyxiation. They'd only know he was dead because you'd be at his bedroom door, bitching for food, as usual, and bothering them."
He stopped then and sipped his ice tea. I glanced over at B who was smiling like this was hilarious. A concluded. "You think the parents would adopt you? Ha. Ha. They would take you back to the SPCA where you would be received as unadoptable and then...oh...so...gently...the big sleep."
The last words were a whisper that floated off into the evening sky.
He hugged me hard and said, "So try not to be a tard, you little peckerhead!" and he and B laughed and both cuddled and kissed me. It was the first time I think I needed the affection.
I could have used it later too when I had the nightmare, but the Mooks were sleeping soundly.
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