I overheard my wife having a strange conversation on the phone the other day. She was talking with her longtime friend Amy about how she thought purchasing the specially designed doggie couch might be a bit extreme.
“But it’s so cute, Shannon,” Amy said, trying to sway my wife into agreeing it would be a good purchase.
“I know what it looks like. You sent me an email link to see it online, remember? I also saw the price tag. Don’t you think $300 is a little excessive and borderline insane to spend on a dog?”
“Maybe, but it will make her so happy,” Amy fought back.
“Why don’t you just go down to Goodwill and get something there. I’m sure Smooches (or whatever its name is) will never even know the difference.”
“But…” Amy tried to speak but my wife interrupted.
“As your best friend you could always just give me the money. I will gladly flush it down the toilet for you. Get a grip, girl. Do you realize how much gasoline you could buy for that much money? It would easily get half a tank or more.”
“You’re right. I knew it wasn’t the best idea. I just love spoiling that dog.”
Sadly, Amy is not alone. Truthfully, she is far closer to normal than many. There is a whole culture out there hell-bent on treating their animals like little people. I don’t mean “little people” like the socially correct term for midgets or dwarfs. Nor do I mean to suggest we are only talking about miniature dogs (I wonder if the politically correct term is “little canine”) either. What I mean is that this rare breed of people (pun intended) thrive on taking care of their puppies like they are children. It’s strange.
Shortly after hearing about the couch, my wife received an invitation to a doggie birthday party. No joke. Her friend Bob was throwing the bash at his place and, as the card indicated, would be delighted if we could make it. There would be enough cake and ice cream so that even the “parents” could have some. How sweet. Not to mention certifiably insane.
I turned to Shannon and said, “Is he aware that we don’t even own a dog?”
“I think so. But I guess it doesn’t matter. Why? You of all people aren’t actually thinking about going, are you?”
“Well, I have to admit I am extremely curious. Though I’m not real comfortable showing up without a dog. What do you think about putting a leash on Cody and making him walk on all fours? It’s still a couple days off, so we could probably train him not to pee on anyone’s shoe by then.”
Shannon just rolled her eyes. I guess the magic is fading.
Then I got an idea that hit me like a bolt of lightning. There was no just way I could feel comfortable at that party without a dog. So I decided to call 1-800-Rent-A-Mutt to see if they had anything available on such short notice. All they had left were Chihuahuas and if it had been closer to Cinco de Mayo we’d have had a heck of a time finding one of those too. Lady luck was indeed smiling on us.
After 48 miserable hours of anticipation, the big day finally arrived. We hopped in the car and headed down to pick up our dog-for-a-day. For no extra charge the place even dressed him for us in an outfit of our choosing. I selected Superman because I thought it was funny. Being a Chihuahua and all, wearing something like that would imply a Napoleon complex. Shannon thought it might upstage the guest of honor.
“Really babe? You think I might hurt Bob’s dog’s feelings?”
Needless to say, they dressed him like the Man of Steel, cape and all. As he jumped inside the trunk (relax, it wasn’t a long drive), I started thinking about names for our new companion. Shannon thought I was psycho naming a dog I was only going to have for a few hours but I pondered the possibilities anyway.
“Taco has a nice ring to it, don’t you think, babe?”
She pretended to have dozed off.
“It was between that and Peso,” I continued, but she didn’t budge.
So by a unanimous vote the name stuck. Taco was going to be my entertainment for the next few hours. And I couldn’t wait to introduce him to his new friends.
When we arrived at the shindig, Bob walked over and gave the introductions.
“This is my little princess, Tinkerbell. And who’s that little rascal you brought with you? I didn’t even know you two had a dog,” our host inquired.
I shot a look at Shannon. “Told you so, hon.” Then, turning my attention back to Bob, I answered, “This here is Taco. He’s a rental.”
“Well, I’ve never heard of such a thing, but come right in. He looks more like Super Taco to me. I’m so glad you could come to help celebrate Tinky’s birthday. She turns three years old today!”
By this point I was already thinking about writing my next article. It was sensory overload. A million ideas were running around my head all at once. “Is calling the dog Tinky really necessary? Isn’t Tinkerbell feminine enough already? If I told Tinky that in people years she’s old enough to drink, would she talk Bob into getting us some alcohol? It would make things more bearable for the ‘adults,’ I think.”
I simply couldn’t keep up. I never thought I’d say this, but there was too much funny for me to process it all. I took a brief moment outside to regain my composure, and afterward we had a grand time.
There were birthday hats and party favors. Pin the Tail on the Cat was quite the crowd pleaser. The contest ended in a tie, however, since no opposable thumbs equals no pinning of anything. I still had a blast watching the mutts try to walk after being blindfolded and spun around three times.
Clowns made balloon humans (wait for it) and painted faces. It was awesome. Poor Super Taco kept looking around like he was lost. I think that maybe the other parties he’d attended had plenty of Corona to go around. And I’m sure he would have felt more comfortable if there was at least one piñata. Also, I can’t be sure, but I don’t think he speaks any English.
As things wound to a close, we said our goodbyes and I took Taco back to his home. He looked at me sadly and I assured him we’d take him to the next dog party we got invited to.
Anyway, I heard rumor that those guys are starting a tee ball league. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. What they don’t know is that we are getting my boy private lessons this summer. When the season starts he’s going to be a home-run hitting animal (again pun intended). I’m gonna be so proud. I can’t wait for the season to start. Maybe he’ll make the all-star team.
* * *
“Got a Minute?”
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