Hard Time

In spite of a lifetime of practice, my dog, Snorp, has never learned to whistle. Why he feels so compelled—even driven—to learn, is beyond me. As a puppy, he would sprawl across the front porch, his head on his paws, blowing bubbles of gelatinous drool, trying to, as he says, “Get my whistle on.” I was always amazed by his lack of frustration at the inability to produce even the smallest sound, even vaguely resembling the most meager of tweets. In later years, I recognized the fact that it wasn’t that he didn’t get frustrated, he simply wasn’t smart enough to realize he was failing.

So, he can’t whistle, but at least he’s a liar. Over the years, I’ve discovered the pattern of his lies, I can tell when he’s lying—his lips move. 

He lies about his love life, his fictional pedigree, his prison record, and he lies about how much of my beer he consumes. He contends he dislikes the taste of my cheap beer, and wouldn’t be seen drinking it. Nevertheless, every evening, as I climb the front steps, I have to wade through an ankle-deep tsunami of empty, crumpled beer cans, empty Doritos bags, and the ever present layer of slowly congealing drool.

I’ve known him a long while, but can’t really say he’s never been to prison. I’ve known him long enough to firmly believe he should still be there, but, well… no actual evidence. According to Snorp, he did, “a five year stretch on the yard, upstate, for a couple counts of felony cat abuse.” When I asked for a little clarification, he confided to make the grade for felony cat abuse you need at least 4 cats, a pogo stick, one accomplice,  a couple of those glow-in-the-dark –chemical-light- thingies, and an industrial strength blender.

No. I didn’t ask.

With only a couple notable exceptions, Snorp is a totally unrepentant, unethical, master at cat-whacking. Unfortunately, cat-whacking is not the worst of his character flaws.

I suspect he’s begun to think of me as his pet. I think it’s going to stay that way until I find someone drunk/foolish/stupid or clueless enough to take him off my porch, off my hands and out of my refrigerator.