THE
WEIMARANER COUCH
By Elinore Standard
The
mother sits in the middle of the couch, a small white dog next to her. Beside
the dog, shoved in close, is the oldest daughter. Next to her is the middle
daughterand on the other side of the
mother, the youngest. All three girls wear shorts andtee shirts that say something. The
mother pulls on the dog's ears and all fourpeople touch each other. The
mother's arm drapes across the youngest's shoulders and her hand idly twirls the girl's
hair. The two other girls enfold each other and somehow also touch the mother.
The dog looks into the room with glassy black eyes. Its tiny pink tongue appears
every so often, licking something.
The
couch party is oblivious to whatever else is happening in the room. Conversation ebbs and flows and
people come and go. Occasional attempts are made to draw them out, to include them in
the conversation, but nothing doing. The girls grunt their answers and
the mother glares. The general petting continues to the clank of
arm jewelry.
The
white dog begins to root at the couch, its tiny paws digging into the silvery silk velvet. "Cut
that out!" cries the mother-in-law whose couch it is. "Get that dog off the couch!" The four on the couch look blankly, like,
what's the matter with her?
The
youngest lifts the cross around her neck and puts it inher mouth. The chain is like a
golden mustachio falling from her face. "Smoochey," she says
across her mother's lap, "plug your ears and don't listen, you sweetie, doggie."
The
mother's eyes shift down to Smoochey and she continues to
pet. The two older daughters preen
like fancy birds. They pick and scratch and tug and smooth. Juicy Couture
fondles Kate Spade and the mother checks her pedicure, stretching her
foot out a ways, lifting the heel of the golden sandal and pointing the
toe. "We have to go back there tomorrow," she says to the oldest girl who
nods. "I don't think she did a very good job and we'll get a free touch-up."
Noises
come from the kitchen but nobody on the couch moves. The table is being set and the
smell from the grill wafts in from outside. On the couch, there is zero interest. All four rigorously diet and it is only the
dog who perks up.
People
in the room shift attention from drinks to what might be coming their way for dinner.
Everybody loves rare lamb except the ones on the couch and they wouldn't be
caught dead. They check each other's fingernails and compare shades of
polish. The spectrum ranges from black (oldest daughter) to very
light pink (youngest). The mother's nails – viciously long – are fire engine.
The
guests gather around the table, four chairs yet unoccupied. "We're waiting for
you, and dinner is getting cold," says the husband, looking at his wife a
little uncertainly. She sighs disgustedly and shifts her weight. The girls rise,
checking their mother for the OK. The dog
gives a little yip, jumps down and heads for the table. Now on her
feet, the mother scoops him up and walks like molasses to her place. Behind them, the couch shows jagged claw marks and wet
dog-dribble spots.
"Do not bring that dog to the table," says the mother-in law. The other guests wait to see
what happens next.
"Smoochie
will be in my lap," says the mother, "you'll never
know he's there." No eye
contact with anyone.
"I'll
know she's there, and you can just put him back in the carrier."
"There's
nothing for me to eat, anyway," says the wife. "I'll take
him outside." The girls don't
quite know which way to go and secretly they are a little hungry. "You girls sit
and have dinner," calls the mother over her shoulder as she opens the screen
door, "it should only take ten minutes."
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