IF OUR PETS COULD TALK

IF OUR PETS COULD TALK

My two dads must secretly hate me. Just when I thought I had the run of the place, here comes Truman. A puppy? Really? Now? I’m just a long-haired Chihuahua trying to live my best life in my golden years. A nap here and there and a little Netflix. A sip of cocktail now and again. For your information, I prefer vodka with a splash of Fresca.

And just exactly what kind of mutt is this Truman? He’s not much to look at: obscenely large jack rabbit ears and a wonky tail. A cross between a Jack Russel and Chihuahua. What does that make him? A Chi-wussell? Absurd! He’s not even house trained yet. Between you and me—and I’m not one to judge, but he’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer.

I’ll pretend I like him. Yep, I’ll let him snuggle up with me here and there. Let him chew my tail a bit. But I won’t like it. And wouldn’t it just be plain awful if a forgetful Chihuahua in his twilight years accidentally left the front door open or listed him for sale on Craigslist when no one was watching? Yep— that would be just plain awful. Just dreadful.