~Wednesday~ Hi. I’m Nala—John’s friend Jen’s dog. (That relationship’s not as confusing as the one in slate.com’s latest Dear Prudence column about the guy who kissed his wife’s ex-husband’s wife, whom he’s afraid he might be in love with. People!)
So. Back to me—Nala.
Jen left me here at around ten o’clock this morning and headed to Charlotte to spend a couple of the Thanksgiving holiday days with her family. I wasn’t invited because my uncle’s dog is going to be there and we don’t get along. But I’m not bitter; I’m jonesing for the Christmas slot.
Before Jen leaves she says something to me about “John” coming to the house: “You know him from watching Glee with us, Nala. He’s the one that drinks a lot of bourbon while he’s here. I’ve left him a detailed Google Doc with everything he needs to know about taking care of you, and you two are going to have a lot of fun together.” Sounded plausible at the time.
So, it’s nearly 5:00, and I hear the key rattling in the front door, and I’m pretty execited! My nub of a tail is going a mile-a-minute, while waiting behind the gate that’s keeping me in the kitchen—and having to pee like a race horse. Only I’m a dog.
I watch him put down his stuff on the kitchen counter, including his laptop bag, which I suspect has a printed copy of the Google Doc telling him exactly where the leash is that he spends the next ten minutes searching for—more frantically by the minute. I’m running back and forth letting him know that I have to go and soon, but I can see that he’s trying. Can’t help noticing that he didn’t have any trouble spotting that bottle of Crown on the kitchen shelf, though.
I think about doing one bark for colder and two barks for hotter, as he gets so close to the coat rack, where my short leash that I don’t really like, but am willing to settle for at this point, is hidden behind a coat. But I don’t think he’d really get the code, and I can see that anxiety is building up in him now.
He looks right at the coat now, and in my head I’m barking repeatedly two barks at a time, all to no avail as he dials Jen, because he’s afraid I’m about to lose it right there in the hallway. When he hangs up without talking to her, I know he’s reached her voicemail.
Next, I want to bark once as what appears to be a Plan B lightbulb goes off over his head, and he heads over to the sliding glass door leading out back. I walk over with him, not to try and encourage him, but to watch his face as this plays out. He unlocks the sliding glass door, and pushes it to the left to the loud thud that it makes when it hits the bar in the track on the floor keeping theives from breaking in. He frantically pulls it out, swings open the door, steps out, and looks at me, like, “Well?”
To appease him, I go out and even walk over to the steps leading down to the fenced in back yard. Not wanting to miss his face when he realizes the deal, I go down three of the five steps, and then quickly turn around to see his expression when he finally notices the chickenwire at the bottom of the stairs keeping me out of the garden that the backyard is.
We head back over to the hallway, and just when I think he might open the hallway closet door, behind which my retractable leash is patiently waiting, he moves the coats on the coat rack and squeals with delight at seeing that three-foot long leash that I’m about to whip him around by in the yard. He was so relieved to finally find that leash that I thought he was going to pee.
Oh, mama, it’s going to be a long three days!
