CJA Pet of the Month!
How To Be Poirot
The first thing one must learn is how to stretch one’s arms and legs until a proper downward dog position has been realized. And this is usually accomplished upon waking. All six pounds of one’s body must engage as one’s tiny black legs splay and expose the underbelly where the black hair does not cover its softness.
And one must learn to bark with the heart of a ninety-pound guard dog. At the postman, other dogs and any human of the male persuasion who comes near his mother. In this instance, one must acquire the skill to unleash all six pounds of one’s fury.
Another talent one must hone is how to strut across the hard wood floors thinking one is not detected. When one’s little nails pop lightly on the surface of the hardwood, the expression on the face must convey the sense that one is invisible, undetected, and unaware that four little paws tapping across the floor can actually be heard.
One must certainly possess a sense of fashion by wagging one’s tail at the sight of a new sweater or the delight of a new raincoat with a cozy fleece lining complete with a slit on the backside for the loop on one’s harness, convenient for leashes and walking.
For bodily function relief, one must learn to approach one’s mother, stand on one’s hind legs and gently push on mother’s calves with the forearms to say, “I must go out now.” And because one is an Affenpinscher, and difficult to house train, one must learn that treats are rewarded each time one goes outside. One must learn how to race from the backyard to the kitchen door, scratching at it in furious excitement and when it finally opens, run like mad to the treat container. Then one must snatch the treat from mother’s fingers and take it to the usual secret place to savor its saltiness.
One must develop the knack for poking at one’s mother with the left paw when she has her computer on her lap. Mother’s lap is not for computers or books or legal briefs, but a special place reserved for one to curl up and sleep.
But most of all, one must learn to be a gentleman. When alone in the car with one’s mother, propped up on the passenger seat on the way home from the grocery story in the special carrier that most people mistake for a purse, one must learn to daintily cross one’s forearms and rest them on the edge of the carrier while gazing at one’s mother with all the love and contentment that six pounds can hold.