In the dog house

Lolakutty Vincent is the most benign creature to exist. In fact, my father- Mr Vincent- gives you full permission to refer to all the non-malignant tumors of the world as Lola, henceforth. (“Oh, nothing to worry about. The biopsy results came out… it’s only a Lola. Thanks for asking,” and so on…) She’s the most harmless thing in the world, after all.

Myth!  

A myth that is as fat as her mutt-ly majesty’s bum, and perpetrated by meticulously creased facial wrinkles, large eyes and a tongue that perennially hangs out her mouth, giving her the appearance of an adorable village simpleton. It works for her; she might as well wear an LED display board on her head, that says, “Love me, love me.” Everyone adores dear, overweight Lola. Precious Lola. If you ask me, her tactics are too tacky for my taste. Anyway, I digress.

Two days ago, my father wanted some help. He was undertaking the mammoth task of cutting Lola’s claws, and he needed my help. Because, you know how the sweet stream-roller gets when a clipper dares nudge her aura, let alone cut her claws. Oh, you don’t know? Let me elucidate. My father held the ‘poor pooch’, in the manner of a mother holding her infant against her shoulder. I was to stand behind him, and go for her claws ‘without her knowledge’. Only problem- her flat face was in perfect alignment with my own. I took the clipper to her paw and without much of a struggle, managed to tackle one claw. All this while, the tiny darling didn’t believe a low-life such as I would even dare complete such a daredevil act. But, the deed was done…1/20^th of it, at least. And, all hell broke loose. Lolakutty began throwing the hissy fit from hell- screaming, yelling, kicking… the works. The clipper and I had formed a cruel tag team and bothered her aura more than it could take. We were to leeeeeave, screeeech, sreeeeech, squeal, squeal,*ultrasoooooonic*. All the while, my father urged me to go for the other claws. Nu-uh, I was done. Hell hath no fury, apparently, like a woman whose nails are at peril. Destroy her soul, but not her nails.

I was dismissed. ‘Okay, I’ll cut her claws. Two or three every night, when she is asleep,’ said my dad, resignedly. Resigned not because his canine daughter was such a scheming, manipulative hag. But, because, I, Anusha Mary Vincent, his human daughter, lacked the tact and skill to cut the former’s nails. 

Later that night, the fair maiden communicated to my dad, no doubt through grunts and heavy breathing that she wanted access to my room. She had just come back from her walk (which entailed my father carrying her down the stairs and to ‘her spot’, where she would wee and poo, only to clamber back onto her master’s loving embrace, and be re-transported to her lair.) Naturally, I had to oblige. She came into my room coyly enough, with my father dotingly looking on. (Both daughters getting along and all that nonsense-joy parents derive from such things.) But, the moment the door shut, she calmly placed her huge bum smack on my feet. I must repeat; this little pest had just come back from her wee walk. Which spells two things- residual wee!!!!! She knew how anal I was about such things. I shrieked and ran into the bathroom to wash my feet. When I came back to the room, she was royally perched on my rug, throwing the smuggest looks in my direction, through her cataract-y eyes. Revenge is sweet, they say. Sweet as dog piss.

The furry female had won. I was inextricably and irreversibly thrown in the doghouse.