We have six rescue dogs. The latest acquisition is an issue.
He’s a breed I can’t remember but one renowned for abrasive ness and, sadly, longevity.
He’s 6lbs, a weight to which his teeth don’t contribute – he has but one, a brown leaner right up front off center.
He’s a clump of grayish-white matted hair, somewhere between dreadlocks and “I thought that electrical circuit was dead.”
He’s blind too.
He’s named Roomba after the squat meandering vacuum that forever bumps into things then changes direction.
That and they both suck.
Roomba hates me and is just itching to sink that one pathetic tooth into me.
I headed to the kitchen to get more coffee. The other dogs heard a deer by the driveway and were looking out the front door at it. Roomba heard the same noise and was staring at the wall next to the door.
My leg brushed against him as I passed and he growled at me.
I continued down the hall with my coffee and I overheard Nancy console him, “Don’t worry. I’m going to kill him soon.”
I slowed my pace to that ‘did I just hear her say she’s planning murder?’ speed. ‘My murder’ no less.
Mind you, I don’t expect you to recognize what that speed actually is because I’m sure you’ve never been in the company of someone plotting homicide out loud.
“Nance?”
“Yeah?”
“Did you just say…”
“I’m going to kill you? Yeah.” She held Roomba to her chest and stroked his head. He stared back at me- or at least toward me- trying to menace me with his lone crooked tooth leaning like a tree in a tornado .
I turned in the hall and went back toward her.
“What?”
“I was thinking,” she adjusted Roomba’s collar, “if this pandemic goes on much longer I’m going to have to kill you.”
I squinted with dumb shock at her. She returned a smile and kissed the dog.
“Well, why? Look, I know this COVID shit is hard on everyone, but…”
“Right, but not everyone lives with you.”
“You’re planning my murder?“
“They would too, honey.”
“But, let’s be honest, I’m a dreamboat.”
“Nooooo. You’re annoying. And every woman has her limits.”
That blind bastard growled as I neared. He can’t wait to jab me with that pathetic little brown dagger.
“I tell you what. I’ll let you decide how you want to go. But I can’t tell you when it’ll happen,” she generously offered.
“Can you put the dog down?! You look like Lisa Douglas in the beginning of Green Acres holding him like that.”
“Higgins, your annoying level is approaching DEFCON 2.”
“This is REALLY weird.”
“For starters, you have a Swahili-English, English-Swahili dictionary.”
“You never know when you’ll need it.”
“See?”
“Nance, it’s the only language where semantic content is applied to atonal sounds.”
“I should’ve killed you in the middle of that sentence! You have Latin flashcards on your phone, you play Partridge Family songs on guitar-”
“-just the hits”
“And for God’s sake why are all of your socks blue?”
“-they had a hard life.”
“And jokes like THAT!”
“Look, socks match the pants. Rule #1 in men’s fashion. I wear jeans a lot. That, and they’re easy to pair up coming out of the dryer.”
“People would wait in line to kill you now– let alone after years of pandemic isolation.”
“You’re having a psychotic break. Let’s do some grounding techniques. I want you to take deep breaths and…”
“No. No I’m not. I’ll let you choose how it ends. That’s only fair.”
“I’m allowed to chose how you’ll kill me?”
“Yes. But not when.”
I turned toward my bedroom and saw Roomba walking out of my closet confident that he just shit either in or near one of my shoes- again.
His aim suffers an allowable inaccuracy.
He is blind, you know.