[dropcap]I[/dropcap] know it’s ridiculous, but I wish I could buy you a puppy. If you’ve got one already, how about two? See, I have this ludicrous idea that dogs could put an end to worldwide hatred, and perhaps even eradicate pissy attitudes.
Take my pissy fifth-grade teacher, for instance. If I could’ve forced her to wrestle a puppy, it might’ve cured the old battle-ax. Because whenever you wrestle a puppy, you start saying things in a high-pitched voice, like, “He’s a good boy. Yes he is.”
And that changes you.
There’s something about puppy breath, too. I’ll bet the smell of it could cure cancer, if scientists ever found a way to bottle it. And puppy bites. Even though they hurt like hell, they’re worth more than real estate, or an all-inclusive cruise to Europe.
Well. Maybe not a cruise.
I wish someone would have the good sense to set up a booth on the street corner and sell puppy love. For five bucks a pop, customers could wrestle the bejeezus out of a happy Labrador. There’d be a single-file line winding clear down the street. I’d be in it.
I once had a dog who demanded to wrestle after supper, every night. The old girl was persistent, too. She’d bark and carry on, then pin me down and sentence me to death by licking.
When she became arthritic, she still wanted to rough-house. But she was fragile. I’d let her pin me down, and lick the hell out of my face. Then, she’d collapse and fall asleep with her head on my chest.
I don’t know why, but she trusted me, even though I’m proud, and self-centered. Those black eyes seemed to understand almost everything there was to know about me.
Then one day, she closed those eyes for good, while I cried mine out.
I hope God likes to wrestle.