Love, Jimmie

Roll

You see this dog?  This dog is the Seamus of dogs.  He’s a beautiful dog.  He likes treats.  He has fur.  And he cannot stand me.

I am not, by nature, a very patient person.  If you look at me from the outside you would disagree with me.  I do have the appearance of being extraordinarily patient and calm.  I speak softly when I answer the same questions you have asked me fifteen times already. I don’t wear scents that burn the very hairs from your nostrils, but instead one that is faintly reminiscent of warm brownies.  My hair is gently fluffy (unless I am applying for jobs, then it is full out “Fatal Attraction” sexy wild.  Apparently.)  My clothes consist of gauzy, wafty things that drape gently around me.   See? Patient.  And dare I say, wholesome.

I think I got off on a tangent there.  The point I am trying to make is that I appear to be longsuffering, as evidenced by the four years I’ve spent trying to win the love of Seamus, the cat, and the three years I’ve spent trying to win the love of Roll, the dog.  (Roll belongs to Martie and Coach, along with Rock, pictured below.  I probably should have explained that.)  On the outside, I am calm and serene.  On the inside, though, I’m a burning mess of “Why won’t you love me, @#%^ cat?!”  or, “@#%^ dog?!”, depending on whose house I’m in.  (This dichotomy is good for the stomach lining, by the way.  No acid reflux here, no sir.)

Rock

Like with Seamus, I’ve done everything I can think of to win that dog’s affection.  I’ve offered my long scratchy nails.  I’ve purchased hamburgers specifically for his consumption.  I’ve folded my legs Indian style and parked myself on Martie’s patio for extensive minutes, waiting for Roll to stop running away from me as if I’m going to beat him between the eyes with a ball peen hammer.

And y’all?  It worked.  It worked!

Last weekend I drove up Martee’s driveway and hauled my three bags of clothes into her house for my two-day stay.  We ventured out to the patio and once again, I called softly to Roll, asking for the pleasure of scratching his ears.  He was not having it.  I sighed and sat grumpily down in the patio chair, mad at the dog who never lets me pet him.  Martee and I watched Tigger ride her bike all around the yard and talked about nonsense and watched Coach water the flowers.  I felt something lick my leg and lean its head on my knee.  I reached down to scratch Rock’s ears and just happened to glance at what I was scratching.  It was not Rock.  It was Roll.

Martie has been telling me for years that Roll loves me, that he’s just shy and protective.  I’d have believed it if I didn’t see him wallering all over everyone else in the family but me, his stomach exposed and his ears flopped back, the epitome of a relaxed dog.  I guess now I see the truth.  He does love me! He really does! Happy sigh.

I will end this heartwarming love story with an open note to Seamus, the cat.

Dear Seamus –

You will not beat me, cat.  You will not.  You will love me.  I will pursue you with a relentless fervor and an endless bag of treats.  I did that with Roll and I won.  I will win with you, too.

Suck on that,

Jimmie

P.S. I somehow fixed the Post About Nothing. I have no idea what I did, so please, no one contact me for technical assistance as I will only be able to tell you that I got my hair cut and whined about my broken blog a whole lot. Read it if you like – it’s only moderately interesting.