Angel Girl

My name is Angel Girl and I\’m eight years old. My ethnicity is a combination of out-of-control terrier and everybody-loves-me poodle. I adopted my humans when I was five weeks old, before the ASPCA standards were as high as they currently are. That explains why these unimaginative, boring suburbanites slipped through the cracks.

Each weekday morning, I slyly observe my humans through half-raised lids.

First, the old man who refers to himself as \”Da\” showers, dresses and leaves the house. A brief snooze later, the old lady who insanely thinks she\’s my \”Ma\” emerges from the rain room ready for work, and I hop down and follow her enthusiastically to the front door.

\”Let\’s go check out the front, shall we?\” she coos.

She thinks I prefer the front yard because the grass is thicker. Forget it. The front is the happenin\’ place. People might walk by with their own dogs in tow, or a neighbor may stroll out to retrieve a newspaper. These are my chances to get in a few good barks while staying close to the protective Ma.

I take out to take care of my business and admit it does feel good, but more important, SHE thinks I\’m good as she gushes, \”Dat\’s a gooood girl, Angel, yes you areyes, you are.\”

She promptly gives me a treat. Imagine that. I get a treat for doing what I would have done in the living room had she not let me out.

Next, the crazy Ma sips a little orange stuff and a little black stuff before holding out another treat and whimpering pathetically, \”Oh, I don\’t want to leave my girl to go to WORkee, but I have to go to WORkee\”

It is more painful to listen to this drone every day than it is for her to leave. But, since Ma seems doggedly determined to impress me with her guilt, I figure it\’s my job to help her. As soon as she\’s out the door, I run to the kitchen window, press my cute, wet nose against it, and level big, sad eyes toward the car backing out of the garage. Ma casts one more sorrowful look my way and waves hesitantly before driving out of sight.

Alone at last. I shake my tail and shake off the sad demeanor while exploring my options for the day. Hmm. I can play with the stuffed critters, the ones Ma calls, \”Duck-bear, Monkey-bear, Mouse-bear, Big-bear, Little-bear, Cat-bear, Moose-bear, ad nauseum.\” I like to strew them over the house and watch Ma and Da kick them out of their way to clear a path.

Then there\’s Da\’s nightstand. Neat stuff, like the thing with colored numbers that usually flash, especially after Da pounds it to stop the wail every morning – I like to wag it to the floor. Or the thing they use to turn on the picture/sound machine. It\’s always a hoot to hide it and see how long it takes the old folks to find it. If I\’m lucky, they won\’t find it till after the evening news.

If they ever thought outside the box, they\’d realize I always push it behind the toilet in the guest bathroom unless the wastebasket is wedged too tightly between the sink and the toilet. In that case, I feel this uncontrollable urge to topple the wastebasket and shred its contents no matter what they are.

Another daily thrill is stashing clusters of snack kibble throughout the house between the sofa cushions, in the corners of Ma/Da\’s closets, under chairs and, of course, in the bed, just in case Ma or Da get hungry during the night.

By the time I\’ve wrapped that task I\’m pretty tuckered. With stretching paws and breathy yawns, I\’ll go curl up by the same kitchen window where I feigned sorrow during Ma\’s early departure. Just a little doze is all I need. The lull of the TNT cable channel Ma left on for me is mesmerizing. But I\’ll still keep an ear cocked for the garage door and ponder how excessive my welcome-home greeting should be tonight. What a manipulative little pooch I am.

Ah, who am I kidding? The greatest fun of the whole day is when Ma and Da come home. I love the old coots and can\’t wait for their rubs and kisses every evening – and their treats.

Did I mention their yummy treats?

Carla from TX