My little Pekingnese, Chuy (from Pikachu not Jesus—Spanish pronounciation “Hey, Soose”), starts talking.
I’m in the bath and he’s stretching up against the side so it’s only his little head peering over the edge:
“I’m Ron Silliman,” he says, “and it’s nice to meet you.”
Well, usually I like to take my baths in peace (and think great and peaceful thoughts——ha ha) but this has my attention.
“Chuy,” I stutter. “You’re breaking my heart.”
“I’m not Chuy,” Chuy(or Ron) replies. “But, it’s okay and if you want I will be your Chuy for you.”
After I get out of the bath (I make Chuy/Ron look the other way, his dark-brown bulging eyes making me a little self-conscious), the dog-man and I have a heart to heart, while I’m rubbing its stomach with my feet.
Chuy/Ron tells me that Ron Silliman died yesterday (out in his garden planting radishes) and this really upsets me because I don’t like it when any one or thing dies.
“But now I’m here,” Ron says, “and I’ll be a good boy. I promise you. A very good boy.”
I really miss Chuy. But I suppose we can make this work.
“Fair enough,” I tell him, “but I have one condition.”
“Shoot,” he says.
“No poetry talk. Deal?”
Ron cocks his head to the left. Then looks straight at me and sitting back on his ass, offers his right paw up to me.
(this, by the way, is a trick Chuy’s never learned.)
No comments:
Post a Comment