The Life I Want to Live
I’ve always found it funny when people talk about being reincarnated. I’m not sure I want to do this whole life thing again, but when I think about being reincarnated, I don’t think about coming back as someone famous, or some great world leader.
In fact, I don’t want any part of that. Too much work. Jesus, you think I want photographers following me around, famous person, or having the responsibility of saving the world? No frickin way.
It is very clear there is only ONE destination for me, if in fact I do, at some point, get reincarnated.
I’m coming back as my mom’s dog.
This mutt has totally got it made.
I swear to God this dog sleeps at least 18 hours a day. At least. And if you try to move her during that period she will growl at you.
She is a hunting dog, which by tradition means she would spend her life hunting. But our hunting trips are few and far between these days, so her hunting prowess has to be channeled on animals not used to being hunted. Frogs, turtles, cats, large birds, other dogs or the occasional lizard, snake or beetle, are all possible targets.
And speaking of eating, she gets all kinds of great food. Dog food, sure, but she also gets tons of stuff that mom gives her. Gravy on her food, organic produce, organic, free-range meat. Far better food than I get to eat.
Oh, and this dog controls the house. When mom is on the phone, the dog sits next to her and barks until she hangs up. The dog is insanely jealous and needs to be the center of attention. It’s pathetic. She will walk up in front of you, look at you, start to lose it and then start banging on you with her paw until you do something, anything, let her out, let her in, pet her, stop petting her, get her something, feed her, pay more attention to her, pay less attention to her, etc. It never ends.
Did I mention she sleeps on a red, leather chair? Did I? Ya, it’s true. A chair bought SPECIFICALLY for her. I don’t have a red leather chair.
Due to some short circuiting of her internal, hunting wires, she will now go on point inside the house. She used to wait until she hit the porch before locking on a point, frozen, with only the tip of her nose searching for the target. But now, as she oozes her pudgy body off the leather chair, she locks on a feeble point, just for the sake of pointing. Her quality bar has fallen and can’t get up. This is my goal in life.
So for those of you looking for me in another life, I’ll be the fat little pooch controlling your house.