Friday, March 12, 2010


No matter how much I ignore them, or scream at them (mostly in French so the neighbors don't know how awful I really am), or discipline them, the dogs, the two stupid bloodhounds, continue to wag their tales furiously when they see me. Now, it could be like a "Farside" comic in which they're thinking about how to dismember me digit by digit, but so far it doesn't seem that way. They love me no matter what. Or at least they are good pretenders.
I am the bloodhound to my children. Lucian has made me crazy with rage and gray hair. He is a broken wind-up toy in the permanent "on" position. Hits a wall, goes the other way, hits a wall, goes the other way. Yet, after I scream at him (also in French, which he is starting to understand, unfortunately) there is tail wagging. I love him, I can't help it. The same can be said for Miss Sass-Ass as I have been know to call Anna. That child has a mouth that I'd like to just slap right off of her face. She doesn't know when to stop talking back, or, correction, she does know when to stop, she chooses not to.
That's when black momma comes out. And Anna gets it then. When I start a sentence with "Gi-irl" and am about 2 centimeters from her face, she knows she has gone too far. Of course, she debates her retreat carefully, so as not to look like she lost the fight.
And still, I love her, wag my tail and feed them both homemade strawberry smoothies and bread pudding with tons of butter.
Unlike the dogs, however, my unconditional love, which is fierce, does not extend to lovers. I don't think it ever will. I don't think it should. Last night I was talking to Anna's baby-daddy, strangely the topic of love came up.
"Oh no, we don't get into that business in Africa," he said. "Love has nothing to do with it. In fact, love is discouraged in my home. It's not good for the economy."
There is a lesson here somewhere. Dogs get hit, beat, screamed at in different languages, and they come back because there's something in it for them, maybe food. Mothers do the same. But lovers beware. There are very few beautiful dogs left out there. They're on the streets licking their wounds and finding their own damn food.

1 comment:

  1. I have to add to this that when my mother read it she said, "Yeah, and a dog can lick his own balls, too."