It’s not easy being me. Nina. Schmeena. The Schmeen. That’s what they used to call me WHEN THEY REMEMBERED I EXISTED.
First, my beloved big brother goes and dies on me. I’m not mad that they helped him along. He was in rough shape and hung in as long as he could. Anybody—dog or human—could see that. But after he was hovering happily overhead with a Frisbee in his mouth, they dragged me into the dining room that is not a dining room to sniff his dead body.
Naturally, like any creature of good taste and random breeding, I declined. Do you sniff your dead? Exactly. Especially not your big brother, the noble guy who talked you down off the ledge when you first got off of death row and were scared of everything, the guy who taught you what it was to be a great dog—a super dog, really, if I do say so myself—a dog who didn’t get her head caught in empty Indian food takeout containers out of the trash.
Then, they cried a lot. For a whole month. Waaah waaah waaah. I was crying inside, but I still managed to do my funny upside-down fruit bat clown faces for them, tried to keep the team motivated.
What did they do for me? Oh, sure, they remembered to feed me and give me fresh water and take me for walks, but instead of moving to a new house with a big backyard full of squirrels and leaping gazelles and other things I could chase that wouldn’t ever turn around and bite me, THEY DECIDE I NEED A NEW BROTHER.
Say what?!?!
They said I “looked anxious.” They said I “looked lonely.” It’s called grieving, people. It doesn’t mean I wanted you to bring home a flatulent moose.
Now they’re saying I’m “scrappy.” If I’m scrappy, it’s because I don’t know this dude, and his mouth is bigger than my head. How the hell do I know where that mouth has been? A girl has got to be prepared for anything. It’s a sad commentary on the state of the world, but that’s the way it is.
Yes, I pounced on his head. Yes, I nicked his nose. No, he didn’t eat me. I didn’t know what to make of that. I heard about a Fox special called When Moose Attack, and this one didn’t. It’s weird.
So my mom flipped out doing her ultra-bizarro I AM ALPHA bit (which included her putting on a huge ski parka and gigantic black ski gloves like some cross between a rabid Schutzhund instructor and the Michelin Man). She dragged me and the moose through the streets of our town for an hour, and I softened a little. Of course I did. She made all three of us—me, the moose, and her—look completely nuts. Extreme humiliation is very effective for pack bonding, as that Dog Whisperer guy seems to have figured out too. The only thing we were missing were wigs and Tinkerbell outfits. Christ.
So here I am in a few pics with the moose that won’t attack. They call him “Eee Lye” and keep beaming at him and calling him their Passover Miracle. I gave in and let my mom take a few pictures. I especially like the one where her socks don’t match. Her socks never match. I feel sorry for her a lot of the time and that’s the only reason I’m going to give this moose a chance. He’ll never be my big brother F., but so far he hasn’t hurt any of my people OR me, and he looks really dorky under the kitchen table. It almost makes me smile. A moose under the kitchen table, well…that’s funny stuff.
I’ll keep you posted, if Mom doesn’t first. Yuck.
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