Many years have passed since I watched my ten-year-old Chinese pugs, E.T. and Connie Chung, pile joyfully into my ex-husband's truck. The disloyal little heathens were much too busy lavishing slobbery kisses on the man's face, neck, ears, window and steering wheel to notice me standing on the porch, waving goodbye.
They couldn't know it would be forever.
I'd had them since they were new-borns, with no thought of ever giving them up until rheumatoid disease entered my life and made keeping them impossible, and, just like that, they were gone, leaving me with only memories to fill the void.
Tons of funny memories ...
Their bed was in the kitchen. They wrapped themselves around each other and slept the years away while I cooked and cleaned. The banging of pots and pans didn't disturb them, nor did cabinet doors opening and closing. But humming was forbidden. E.T. did not permit any humming in his house. I could sing out loud if I happened to be in the mood, or I could recite the Gettysburg address if such an urge hit me, but I must not hum. No humming.
Sometimes, I forgot. There I'd be, lost in thought, rolling out pie crust or stirring a pot of soup and I'd begin humming a tune. Poor E.T. - sleep disturbed - would come out of his bed, take a seat right close to my ankles and snarl. Snarl! I mean, there'd he'd be, lip drawn back, teeth showing, growling a clear message at me.
The first few times this happened ... he was so little to be talking so big, and I hadn't the foggiest idea what crime I'd committed in the first place ... so I laughed down into his dear wrinkled face. Well, laughter, it seemed, was okay in E.T.'s rule book. Laughter was good. He returned to his bed. Only to be forced back up again and again to straighten me out each time my mindless humming returned.
I was a slow learner but eventually I got it. No humming. Talking was permitted. Laughing and singing were fine. But humming would not be tolerated.
I tested the boundaries E.T. set for me many times and with great amusement, before finally becoming the well-trained and obedient mama he always knew I could be.
I still miss my dogs ...
Today, Phillip and I live in a tiny apartment. There's a dishwasher in the kitchen. We know it works. I've used it twice ... maybe three times in the seven years we've been here. Why don't I turn the thing on more often? I don't know ... There's just something comforting about standing at the kitchen sink, hands immersed in warm sudsy water ... humming a contented tune.
Sometimes, I pause mid-lyrics and wait for a gentle scolding to come from a dog bed that no longer exists ....
email: MelindaGerner@Yahoo.com
