Me: “I’m gonna throw this tennis ball, and I want you to fetch it and bring it back to me.”
Gracie (feigning disinterest): (No thanks.)
Me: “It’s not an invitation–it’s a directive. You’re supposed to be a retriever.”
Gracie (disinterested): (Part retriever.)
Me: “Y’know, when people say you look like a freakin’ pitbull, you point out that you’re ‘mostly’ Lab. When I want you to act like a Lab, you say you’re part ‘terrier’, which itself is a euphemism for pitbull. You can’t have it both ways. Besides, fetching tennis balls would be perfect, in that I could do my part from a lawn chair.”
Gracie (put off): (Whoa–I smell urine … this way… somewhere…not here…)
Me: “Yo, Gracie. Over here. You need to have some FUN here, you jerk, not stand there like Ferdinand the Bull. Quit smelling urine, and fetch this damned ball!”
Gracie (panting): (Are we having fun yet?)
Me: “DON’T MOUTH, you mutt. FINE. Stand there and look at me like I’ve just tried to kill you. You are truly, blatantly lazy. The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy Lab mix bitch.”
Gracie (looking away): (You remind me of Nana.) [Nana was my late mother, who was known to be somewhat sarcastic on occasion.]
Me: “That was cold.”
Gracie (baleful): (You started it.)
Me: “Listen. I’m writing this. I don’t DO back-and-forth exchanges between you and me. This conversation’s over. You’re supposed to be a retriever. “
Primary and backup dogs - circa 2006.
* * *
