“Sophie, we need to talk about your behavior,” I would say after a date. “It wasn’t OK to tear that guy’s leg off the moment he entered the house.”
“Oh, I loathed him,” Sophie sighed. “Can’t you see that he is an irresponsible type with absolutely no goals?”
“How can you possibly know that about the guy in 12 seconds?” I asked. “You saw him and you immediately ate the epidermis off his right ankle.”
“Believe me, I am that good,” Sophie said with an arrogant sniff.
“Why did you pretend to be crazy about that new guy?” I asked another time. “Yet the moment you pounced on his lap, you snapped at his most vulnerable body part. I was horrified.”
“Oh stop being such a drama mama,” She said. “Don’t tell me you couldn’t see that he is a womanizer.”
Well, three years ago, I lost my sweet Sophie. I truly thought my heart would fall out. I haven’t had an interest in dogs since she died.
For the last five days though, I have been baby-sitting Biscuit, a little guy who is just as mouthy as my Sophie was.
“Wow, you’re a lousy housekeeper,” he announced as he strolled inside and took a look around. “Don’t you own a dust rag or a mop, maybe?”
“Not nice,” I said through gritted teeth.
“Not untrue though, right?” Biscuit said with a grin. “Come on, let’s play ball.”
By the way, Biscuit is obsessed with playing ball. When I complained that my arm was tired from repeatedly throwing the dumb ball, he called me lazy and boring.
When someone in the neighborhood played with fireworks, Biscuit temporarily lost his mind, running and barking, jumping up and down.
“Knock it off,” I snarled.
“My job is to let you know when I hear noises,” Biscuit said. “Whether you like it or not, every single time I hear a big boom, I will bark my head off in your ear.”
“Yeah, I see that,” I groaned. “Good grief, it’s after three o’clock in the morning, and you choose now to pee?”
“It’s not like you are worn out from cleaning house,” Biscuit chuckled. “Come on, Chick. Do your part and open the backdoor. Come outside and stare at the moon while I do my business.”
Last evening, when Biscuit and I parted ways, I was a little bit sad to see him go.
“Before I go home with my mom, I have some advice,” Biscuit said.
“All right, I’m listening,” I sighed.
“Take time,” Biscuit smiled as he patted my shoulder. “Take time to be in love with the moon. Take time to play. If you don’t like to play ball, choose something else. But always play. And don’t forget to go crazy every now and then, like I do when I hear fireworks.”