Wednesday, February 15, 2012

an exercise in anthropomorphizing and transference

The scene: the dogs and I are watching the Westminster Kennel Club dog show. Well, Bingley and I are, curled up together on the couch. Darcy is sprawled out on the floor.

Extremely fancy dogs prance across the television screen. Bingley looks at them, and then gives me what I believe is a very worried look (he has a naturally wrinkled forehead).

Me: No, I don't want one of those dogs! I love you!

Bingley: *worried look*

Me: Oh, don't worry about not being like them! Think of all the baths those dogs have to take! You hate baths!

Bingley: *worried look*

Me: Their job is to look like that. You have much better things to do with your time!

Television announcer: This Best of Breed is also a certified therapy dog and actually works on a farm! Also she has had twelve puppies!


Me: God, Bing, the last thing the world needs is twelve more of you. No, I didn't mean it like that! I meant that we got you fixed so fewer puppies like you will end up dumped in Virginia woodpiles, because not all of them will be rescued by ATV-riding families named the Waltons.* And, um, you could totally be a therapy dog. If you had an attention span.

Darcy: *farts*

Me: You could also be a therapy dog if you didn't do that.  

Bingley: *worried look*

Me: Okay, look, Bing. I am not going to fall for some shiny-coated chicken-herding show-winning hipster, I mean Irish setter, and abandon you. I adore you. That is never going to change. Everything is fine, baby Bing. I know things have changed in this household but everything is fine. Look at me! See how fine I am!

Emotionally manipulative Purina commercial comes on.

Me: Oh no! *bursts into tears*

Bingley: *freaks out*

Darcy: *farts horrendously*

Me: I think it's time to turn off the television.

*Absolutely true story. These people rescued a litter of fifteen abandoned brindle puppies, at least one of whom is a neurotic perpetual-motion-machine, and fostered them until they were old enough to go to shelters. Waltons, I salute you, and you are going straight to heaven.

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