A Remembrance of
Tom by his Longtime Companion, an English Bulldog
named Wally
by Jon Sindell
Unaccustomed
as I am to public speaking, I have been induced
to follow a trail of crunchy bacon bits to the
podium that I might share some thoughts about my
recently departed “master” (odious
epithet, that), a male human named Tom.
The patently
human presumption is that I thought about Tom. I
thought about Tom a bit, of course, “a bit”
being considerably less than humans typically
believe their dogs to think about them.
Excuse me
while I lick.
Ah!
Now then.
Impelled by the necessity of starting somewhere,
I begin with the observation that Tom was fond of
wearing a particular t-shirt. This faded and
frayed garment was adorned with an amateurish
cartoon depiction of a canine of some
indeterminate and distinctly inferior breed. The
image was situated above the prayer, “May I
be the man my dog believes me to be.”
This sentiment
was ever a puzzle to me. To the limited extent
that I thought of Tom, I thought of him as a
provider of shelter, exercise, warmth, and
sustenance, a role he discharged in such a
satisfactory manner that I rarely experienced the
urge to tear his throat out as he slept. I should
like to add that in the matter of the provision
of warmth, Tom proved a most excellent companion.
His billowing belly, grown to admirable magnitude
and optimal softness by his incessant consumption
of fried chicken, sausage pizza, and beer, warmed
my flanks on many a winter’s night. The
warmth was at its best when Tom would sling a
heavy arm around me following his latest
rejection by a female of his species,
pathetically moaning, “Why oh why, Carmen?”
Or, “Why oh why, Jennifer” or “Why
oh why, Kat” (O, odious name!) The agreeable
effect produced by the rhythmic repetition of
these sonorous phrases would improve my dozing no
end. Tom would then ask the unseen female, “What
did I do? What’s wrong with me? Why do you
reject me? Why? Why? Why?” these unavailing
queries quickly devolving into the percussive
exclamation, “Wah! Wah! Wah!” Squeezing
me tighter, Tom would assure a companion in no
need whatsoever of reassurance, “At least I
have you, Wally.” Dear Dog! How I detested
the condescending contraction of my noble name,
“Sir Wallace The Scourge Of Flea-Bitten Cats!”
And while I
freely confess to experiencing a titillating
tingle when Tom squeezed me tight, in consequence
of which I would contemplate the pleasure to be
afforded by, ahem, physical congress with Tom’s
soft, warm, ample leg, the reduction in natural
urges that I noticed years ago upon release from
my boyhood imprisonment by the human monster
known as “The Vet” ensured that I might
rest peacefully in Tom’s warm embrace
without overheating, if you catch my drift. Free
of the distracting influence of carnal lust, I
would partake of the more refined pleasure of
sniffing the aforementioned t-shirt of Tom, which
at times such as these would not have been washed
for at least two weeks, just as Tom’s body
would not been washed, giving the garment and the
body alike the delightful fragrance of stinking
cheese.
In remembering
Tom, I must also commend his inquisitive mind.
“Who’s
a good dog?” he would often inquire. When I
would respond with the dignified silence that
such an inane query deserves, he would repeat
with greater intensity, “Who’s a good
dog, then? Who’s a good dog!” Failing
to perceive that my dignity forbade a response,
he would proffer the absurd interrogative yet
again—for which reason I identify
persistence as another of Tom’s chief
attributes. To persistence I would add
helpfulness, for Tom would invariably conclude
these exhausting interviews with the grand
exclamation, “You are! You’re a good
dog!” The reward for my Job-like patience
would be a bacon bit, while the punishment would
consist of a pat on the head. This last, of
course, is why we canines charge humans with
putting the “pat” in “patronizing.”
Further
recounting Tom’s virtues, I would note that
on occasion Tom displayed surprising wit for one
so dim, as when he would remark to passersby in
the park that he and I well illustrated the axiom
that dog and owner soon begin to resemble each
other. I always assumed, with charitable self-delusion,
perhaps, that Tom meant this as an absurd joke,
for the alternative interpretation, that Tom
really believed I looked like him, is too ghastly
to consider.
So there you
have it. I have dutifully identified as Tom’s
chief virtues responsibility, inquisitiveness,
persistence, helpfulness, and humor, along with a
delightful disinclination to bathe or do laundry.
Take him all in all, he was a man—a claim, I
must add, that I assert with no intention of
being cruel.
Farewell,
Tommy Boy! I shall not sniff your like again.
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