If I were able to list three questions that I could pose to whomever is in charge, given the opportunity, I would not have to ponder said collection of questions very long before arriving at three—with a whole line-up of questions on stand-by.
I would inquire as to the sanity of car racing and the use of leaded fossil fuels. This seems a no-brainer to me, the arguments stacked against the sport, though I’m certain car racing fans would strongly argue the contrary.
Leaded gasoline—the fuel still used in racing cars—has been conclusively linked to aggressive behaviour, not to mention a myriad of other negative by-products of its use not even mentioning destruction of the planet.
However, that’s an argument for another day.
I would inquire about why it is that religion teaches us about respect and honour and obedience, yet we feel justified in wanting to harm, abuse, and kill each other in the name of religion when our viewpoints and our style of worship differ.
Madness. I just can’t get my head around this one.
Thirdly, the one conundrum that has me stumped today (and most days) is why does my dear, sweet dog choose to roll in, to immerse herself in, to chew on the most disgusting, decaying, stench-ridden, guck-infested crap she can find.
Why? Can anyone answer this for me? I fall at your feet and beg for the answer. I must know.
I love Gracie. Mostly I love her. Some days when the dog hair is piling up in the corners and I’m thinking of throwing myself in front of a train to get the dog hair off my black pants before I head to work, I tend to love her less, but I still love her; the word love is still in the equation.
But this habit, this necessity of hers, to go for a romp always in pursuit of—and in the hunt for—something horrible to roll in is really starting to get to me.
How many times in a week can I scrub the smell out of her long, hairy coat? And why does she shake before I’ve had a chance to run for cover? So many questions yet so few answers.
Is this perhaps Gracie taking a stand against domesticity? Would she rather be in the wild, fending for herself eating dead rodents (or live ones if she were to speed up her reaction time) instead of her carefully-balanced, cereal-free organic turkey kibble; finding whatever she can on her own to eat, abandoning that orange giant-sized cushion in the corner that she sleeps on, negating the regular trimming of her toe-nails and those pesky vaccinations?
Has she thought this through and this is her best option, and the only way to express her preference is to smell as wickedly nose-grabbing horrible as she can?
Well, let me help Gracie pack because I am more than tired of this habit of hers. I may have been a slob in my childhood. I may have required nagging to make my bed and brush my hair, but my standards certainly were higher than Miss Gracie’s.
I did let horse hair dander blacken under my finger nails, and there might have been a time or two that I didn’t floss after eating spinach and there was the learning curve for wearing make-up that sometimes left some startling results on my face.
But I still have grounds for complaint about the aroma that’s currently wafting from the direction of Gracie, whom I just scrubbed the previous evening complete with a good talking to—a talking to that bordered on a lecture.
Was she not listening?
Why? Why? I bury my face in my pillow that, come to think of it, smells oddly like Gracie, and all I can say is why?