I was peeling a potato at the sink in the kitchen, thinking about how much work a potato is to prepare when you consider the little bit of food you end up with. But when you’re Irish, you eat potatoes.
The back door to the house was open. I used to leave it open to encourage my cat to run away. But Grumbles has been sent to punish me and so, it seems, I must suffer.
After a few more swipes at my supper-to-be, I suddenly heard the distinctive pitta-pitta-pitta of an animal’s claws on the linoleum floor behind me. I looked around to see a short yellow dog with a big furry head trotting unconcerned on his way past me.
“Well, hello there Rover,” I said, as I was in a rare be-kind-to-strange-dogs mood. “How’s it going?”
“Name’s not Rover,” he growled back, curtly. “It’s Biff,” he barked. “Mind if I look around?”
“Be my guest, Biff,” I laughed and I thought, “Now, isn’t that cute.” Then, as the dog roamed off into the dining room and soon, out of my sight into the living room, I went back to the potato and mused about how darned good life really is after all and how it’s just so great to be alive and if this is as good as it gets, well that’s all right with me. As I recall, I even started whistling a happy tune. The theme to the old Andy Griffith Show, I think it was.
Biff spent quite a while, really, in the living room but I knew he was just doing a careful inspection. Dogs and cats are intrigued by new territories and like to do a lot of sniffing, I thought. And I vaguely recalled something else about dogs and territories and things like that but I just couldn’t remember exactly what it was.
Eventually, Biff had seen all he wanted to see so he retraced his steps through the hall and back out into the kitchen, stopping for a few seconds beside my appliances. Shocked and unable to speak, I watched as he claimed territorial rights on my stove in the way that I suddenly remembered dogs stake their claims. Having identified the stove as falling within his territory, Biff loped on out of the kitchen, through the back door and was gone.
As I knelt beside the old stove with pail of water and sponge in hand, erasing the territorial claim Biff had so carefully placed there, I found my sense of humor again and started chuckling.
“Boy, this’ll make a great story some day,” I thought, and as I scrubbed I pondered how strange it is that an incident which might upset you at the time it happens, eventually, when the pain is gone, can become a story you’ll tell and laugh about for years to come.
I thought about other similar mysteries as I set the table and prepared to eat. Before I sat down for supper, I went into the living room to put on some music. It was then I realized how fleeting happiness can be and how quickly a good mood can go bad. Standing before my stereo, I discovered, to my sadness, that Biff had claimed more than my stove as part of his territory while on his visit to my place. He had taken a shine to certain other of my possessions. He particularly liked both of my stereo speakers, especially the black cloth covers on the fronts. He thought, while he was there, he may as well claim my wood record stand and what the heck, why not include that blue captain’s trunk over there in the corner.
Tears welled in my eyes as I discovered, too, that Biff had a special thing for wooden office desks.
In the evenings these days, I sometimes go for long walks along the streets in my area. Occasionally, I call out, “Biff. Oh Biff. Here Biff!” From time to time, when I think to do so, I ask people on the street, “Did you happen to see a short, yellow dog named Biff around anywhere?” So far, no one has.
All I can say is, I’m a bitter man. It’s my firm belief now that if animal-rights activists want people like me to treat “non-human animals” with respect, they’re going to have to teach the pets of this world a few more manners.
And they can start with Biff. Providing they get to him before I do.
(Update: All that furniture and stereo equipment is gone now. The stains on the speaker covers turned white and stayed that way. I was never able to find a way to get them out.)
©1987 Jim Hagarty
