WALKING IMELDA: A BAD DOG STORY

What should I wear on my walk tonight?

I have a bad habit of talking to people in line at the Shop Rite rather than doing what everyone else does—devouring every gossip rag until it’s time to load the groceries onto the conveyor.

“Bad Dog was a serial killer in a past life???” I answered her incredulously.

          “I’m just trying to explain to you that in my religion, animals hold a very special place. Divinity is found in the midst of everyday life and permeates all forms of being. All life forms are manifestations of God as limited beings.”

She asked me to consider the idea that animals were people who had made mistakes in their life as a human and have come back to earth as a lower life form in their quest for enlightenment.

          “So, Bad Dog did something bad in her life as a human and now she’s back as a dog to repent for past mistakes? Newsflash: she’s failing miserably,” I said as I thought of all the times she snatched my husband’s steak from his dinner plate, purloined the Sunday loin, and managed to claw open the refrigerator door and chow down when left alone in the house.  

          However, my conversation with this lovely lady has made me look at Bad Dog in an entirely new light. At night as Bad Dog snuggles up to me from Jim’s side of the bed I wonder if I’m really snuggling with Jeffrey Dahmer or Saddam Hussein.

          No, there’s no way that Bad Dog was ever a man. She’s entirely too smart in a cleverly manipulative way. No question—her karma just screams WOMAN! But which woman? I made it my mission to find out. There is no doubt in my mind that her Pomeranian friend Bitsy was Marie Antionette in her previous life. Her perfectly pouffed coif could display a naval ship, or a birdcage, no problem. Also, Bitsy’s regal carriage possesses a “Let them eat cake,” air of superiority. Of course,  Bad Dog carries a “Let me steal cake” air ala Les Miserables.

          I tried to see what Bad Dog gravitated towards that would help me to discover what notorious woman in history she was. You all know her recent penchant for drinking day old wine if she can get the bottle to fall to the floor at the right angle when she knocks it off the refrigerator shelf. Well, there’s an ancient Persian fable that credits the discovery of wine with a woman. Could this woman have been Bad Dog?

According to the fable a princess lost favor with the King and the shame was so overwhelming that she ate some table grapes that had spoiled in their jar in an attempt to end her life. Instead of dying she got so silly and giddy passing out. When she awoke she found that all her troubles had disappeared. She decided to eat more of the spoiled grapes and the more she ate, the more her mood changed for the better. So much so that she regained the favor of the King. Wine had solved and dissolved all of her earthly problems. Could this be Bad Dog?

          No, because no matter how much wine she drinks, she never regains the favor of King Jim who threatens to return her to the pound every time she pilfers his dinner. In fact, no matter how much wine I drink I seldom regain the favor of King Jim who threatens to return me to the pound—in his dreams!

          Then one day I walked into my bedroom and there, cuddled around the pile of my shoes that she had haphazardly, yet carefully, pulled from my closet slept Bad Dog. She looked so comfortable and peaceful dozing amongst the Madden’s, Weitzman’s, Edelman’s, BeBe’s, Dolce Vita’s, and Puma’s.  Then it struck me. Since the day she arrived from the pound, she has regularly feasted upon Jim’s two pairs of shoes, and gnawed on the kids’ rubber-soled sneakers like she was eating salt water taffy. However, she never touched my shoes. Not even my furry slippers. I now knew Imelda Marcos was living inside the body of Bad Dog.

Technically, Imelda Marcos is very much alive, but I believe that her old unreformed self, the Imelda of the martial law years, has taken up residence within Bad Dog’s body. It all makes sense. The disregard for Jim’s dinners, the wine, the shoes. The shoes, the shoes, the shoes.

          So now when we have a playdate with Marie Antionette, Bad Dog will fit in just fine. However, despite the fact that Imelda Marcos has attempted to transform her life within her lifetime, I fear that Bad Dog never will. 

BAD DOG HAS GOOD TASTE; OR, THE GOOD LIFE OF BAD DOG

Got Milk?

“Oh my God! We’ve been robbed!” my brain screamed as I entered the kitchen after having come home from work only to find the refrigerator wide open and half-eaten food strewn all over the hardwood floor. I tried to remain calm by taking a few deep breaths.

I didn’t understand. The front door was locked. I checked the back door, basement door—all locked. No one could’ve have gotten in through a window since they’re all painted shut. If a burglar did open a window I will hunt them down just so they can open the rest of them since in ten years my husband hasn’t been able to.

Then I panicked. Where’s the dog? She’s always waiting at the door for me. Was she harmed? I ran around the house shouting her name. Nothing. It wasn’t until I grabbed the phone to call the police that I saw the burglar prostrate, dead to the world, beside the couch. The burglar was none other than Bad Dog, her bad self. I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but I’m pretty sure the clues pointed in her direction--strings of spaghetti crusted to her snout; her beard drenched with Sunday gravy. Anger replaced the panic. I nudged the hairy culprit with the toe of my snow boot but nothing. No response.

          I bent down and put my face next to hers to make sure she was breathing. Her pungent breath almost knocked me over. I recognized the sour smell but it took me a few seconds before I…Dear God!  She was drunk. Full-out stinking drunk! No wonder, really, because lying among all the food on the kitchen floor was an empty bottle of 2003 Malbec that had only been open the night before. I had an open bottle of Malbec and cheap Chardonnay in the fridge; she went with the Malbec. Good choice considering the menu of leftovers she chose: artisanal cheese that my friend had sent me from her Seattle dairy farm, four marinating Porterhouse steaks from the butcher at Fairway that I was planning on grilling for dinner, Godiva Chocolate, leftover eggplant parmigiana, spaghetti, and Sunday gravy with Johnny Meatballs meatballs! (She ate all the meatballs, so 2 thumbs up from Bad Dog and the canine crowd for Johnny Meatballs meatballs!)

How did Bad Dog get her bad self into the fridge? Well, my good man Watson, I’m going to conclude that someone to whom I said “I Do” to almost 20 years ago forgot to close the refrigerator as he was returning the gallon of milk that he had just poured for his and Katie’s cereal. Since I had left for work before he and the children left the house, I’m going to further conclude that he did not notice the refrigerator door was ajar when he left the house. Now, I can’t entirely blame him since our house is well over 100 years old and no longer level. (Hell, I’m over 40 years old and no longer level.) The kitchen is so slanted it’s like working in a ship’s galley during a raging storm. Things just toss and roll at will. My kitchen could definitely qualify for Weird New Jersey.   

          After I had cleaned up the mess I sat down on the sofa with a cup of coffee. (Unfortunately, the Malbec was all gone.) I watched as the carcass of Bad Dog began to stir. She pried one, then two hairy eyeballs open and, after a few feeble attempts, was able to lift her head. Talk about the hair of the dog! When her eyes were able to focus she just stared at me. It was a knowing stare that said, “Do you have any idea how many times I had to look at you like this? At least I licked your feet to ease your pain.”

          As she tried to rise on all four paws I could relate to her staggering imbalance, but still I said, “So, you had to eat the marinating Porterhouse? Johnny Meatballs and eggplant weren’t enough for you? Hope you enjoyed the wine!”

          She wobbled unsteadily to the back door reminding me of a drunken sailor’s drunken girlfriend who gets paid by the hour. I mused about taking her to A.A.

“Hi, this is Bad Dog and she’s an alcoholic.”

“Hello Bad Dog!”

As I watched her repeatedly fall sideways into the snow I thought that as bad as Bad Dog is, and she is bad, at least she has good taste. Artisanal cheeses, Johnny Meatballs, Porterhouse steaks tartare, and Malbec. Not a bad life for a bad dog. 

ADVENTURES OF BAD DOG--A CANINE CARTOON

You've read about BAD DOG, now you can see her. Here's a MomtoMomTV.com canine cartoon. Another Wonton Women Production, filmed and animated by Donna Brennan.


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