My Granny, half French and half Roman, is part of my pack. Each morning she arrives trotting cheerfully. I founded the “5 paws movement” for the protection of the home dog’s rights with my human brothers. We put Umi immediately in the minority making any opposition of hers fall, while Granny is the extremist fringe of the opposition resistance. She uses a rolled newspaper as a weapon to threaten me when I wallow on the lounge carpet to scratch myself. Should I pretend to be afraid? As If I didn’t know a newspaper can be reduced to coriander… Naive like a flower-power girl!
Granny always reads with a cat on her lap. She thinks cats are always right and I’m always wrong. I can’t jump on the bed while cats can; I can’t sit on the couch, they can sleep on it for hours; they can even use me as a pillow but I can’t play with them: because I frighten them!
When I have to pee is a war: “not on the hydrangeas”, “not in the rock garden side” “not on the sage” shouts Granny! And I must jump to the oleander, while the cats… they pee everywhere to mark their territory, they delimit our garden’s perimeters to keep the neighborhood cats out. Which simply means they pee wherever they want.
Granny is a eel: if she comes to the market with us, she escapes and slips among the benches and I get mad to find her, to launch the “lost granny” alarm and bring Umi on her trace.
And yet… Granny is corruptible! She thinks to be able to open the cookie jar preventing me to hear her. I always catch her red-handed and then I have my insatiable revenge: I look at her, I stare at her following the sweet movement of the sugar free cookies she dips in her tea (I’m always a border collie, I control the sheep alone with my look and I’m an hypnosis master). My eyes make her feel guilty, they make her feel a fat, old human starving a sad malnourished dog. And being a great artist I let a thread of drool fall on the ground, I’m like a spider weaving its web. Therefore every time she surrenders and with a guilty feeling and some disgust she gives me a cookie. We shouldn’t eat cookies because I’m allergic to cereals and she has a bad relationship with her glycemic index, but none of us will ever say a word to Umi.
At the end Granny gets angry with Umi and she reproaches her for the anarchy reigning in our pack. It’s not real anarchy: the cats rule. But I keep this opinion only for myself.
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