Yap Yippity Doo-Da

Greetings from sunny Florida. I hopped on a plane last Tuesday to surprise my mother for her 75th birthday. She was surprised alright. She cried when she saw me, and it was a sweet and touching reunion. Which lasted all of five minutes. After that, it was Fergie, Fergie, Fergie.

For the record, my name is not Fergie. Fergie is a silver and brown, tube-shaped, silky-haired DOG—my parents' 18-month-old Yappie. Let me tell you, it's a sad comment on family relations when you, the number one child in EVERY way imaginable, are treated like spam in deference to THE DOG.

My mother rejoices in saying, "Oh look!" as her precious yapping machine hops around my feet. "She wants you to pay attention to her!" She and Dad are aglow.

The bark-o-meter peaks at a level even wolves consider shrill, with reverb off the walls. Of course, this is the benefit of aging. Your hearing goes, which spares your eardrums from your dog's yap-yippity-doo-da. However, since I am but their human offspring, my intact eardrums verge on bursting.

Dad sheds a wistful tear as he coos, "Aaww, look at that. She's talking to you!"

It's as if the dog is Helen Keller eking out her first word. "Waaaa!"

I get down to Fergie's eye level to make sure we're communicating. "Two can play at that game," I say. "Have you SEEN me roll over and shake? You have much to learn, Yaphopper." Our ears perk up, our heads cock sideways, and our noses twitch while our individual wills clash in a Close Encounter of the Turd Kind.

Later . . . "Oh, look, she's on the dining room table!" Mom beams, enchanted by the divinity in motion that is THE DOG. On the table. Where we eat!

When Fergie leaves a reeking tootsie roll on the carpet, my mother is only vaguely annoyed. "Fergie!" she snaps. With her hands on her hips, she adds, "Oh, we-e-e-e-ll." After which, her pooping prodigy gets swooped up into a hug. A HUG!

Could it get any worse?

Oh yes! It could! She squeals and coos and fawns all over the dog. Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss. She was never that enamored with her flesh-and-blood grandchildren! Then my mother, who in an earlier life was known from Arizona to Texas as "The General," baby-talks gleefully: "Isn't her just the cutest thing?"

Listen, when we were kids, any pet who dared to crap in the house was booted out, destined to spend life outside with horned toads, snakes, and occasionally my dad. That kind of disrespect for domestic property amounted to an international incident that Mama Salla did NOT tolerate.

Now? (sigh) I guess a good poop only is as revered as its architect. A Fergie poop is akin to Frank Lloyd Wright's—a modern movement that invites the outdoors in.

Thing is, the Silver Turd gets it that her sudden position at the zenith of the inheritance ladder is assured with every revoltingly cute thing she does. So she continues to manipulate my parents' affections. Obviously, she is evil incarnate.

This Easter, I'll be filling up a basket with gaudy-colored eggs to hide. You know how there's always an egg or two you never find? Frankly, I wonder if Fergie would fit in a basket . . .
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