“Howard, please don’t give Miss Piddy bacon. You know it’s not good for her.” Elsie did not like nagging her husband about feeding the dog at the table, but Miss Piddy really was too fat. The miniature dachshund’s stubby legs barely kept her belly from dragging the floor, and at her age, 84 in dog-years, being overweight was decidedly unhealthy.
Howard was hard of hearing, a convenient fact that excused him from acknowledging his wife’s admonitions. He kept his eyes fixed on the newspaper while he mopped up the last bits of egg yolk with a piece of toast. Miss Piddy sat at his feet, her cylindrical body erect as a prairie dog’s, her little front paws curled in supplication. No one had taught her to beg; she’d figured out this posture by herself, and a highly effective one it was. No meal passed without some delectable scrap falling to the floor.
Elsie rose to clear off the breakfast dishes. As she stood, Howard’s hand flicked a bit of egg-soaked toast that Miss Piddy snapped from the air before it hint the ground. Elsie’s cheeks flushed and she drew breath for a reprimand, but held her tongue.
When Howard had disappeared through the back door to tend his garden, Miss Piddy turned to Elsie. The dog followed her from table to sink and back again, her nails clicking on the tile floor. Elsie gave an exasperated look and said, “You’re just a piggy, aren’t you?” The dog’s ears perked up and her liquid brown eyes widened in supplication, her tail vibrating. “Oh, all right,” Elsie said. “Daddy’s not the only one who can be nice to you.” She tore the crusts off a leftover piece of toast, taking care not to include the buttered part, and dropped them on the floor. Miss Piddy pounced like a starving refugee, licking up every crumb. “Piggy,” Elsie said again. “I should’ve named you Miss Piggy.”
Elsie had named Miss Piddy when, as a puppy, she piddled on the floor whenever she got excited. Elsie was the one to clean up after her, make sure she got her shots, watch her diet. The dog had been a 70th birthday present from her daughter. Elsie had always wanted a little dog, one of those tiny, cuddly things. A neighbor lady had a little dachshund and Elsie was much taken with its smooth, shiny coat and large, cartoonish eyes. She’d been surprised when Howard assented to a dog, probably after some arm-twisting by their daughter. Raised on a farm, Howard had a farmer’s attitude toward livestock and had displayed no affection for their children’s pets. Allowing a dog in the house seemed a big concession and Elsie, at first, was grateful. But Howard and the dog had taken to each other and she couldn’t help feeling maybe she should have gotten a different breed. Another lady friend had a Pomeranian, just a speck of white fluff. Elsie could tie a pink bow around its neck, name her Miss Prissy. Howard would never have anything to do with a dog like that.
***
After cleaning up the kitchen, Elsie attached Miss Piddy’s leash for their morning walk, allowing her to “do her business”. When they returned, Elsie began work on her needlepoint project. She patted the couch cushion to encourage Miss Piddy to join her. The dog just stared with baleful, uncomprehending eyes. Elsie sighed. “Would you like a cookie?” Miss Piddy’s tail waggled and she looked more interested. Elsie dug in her sweater pocket for a piece of dog biscuit. “Here you go, a cookie.” Thus induced, Miss Piddy clambered up beside her.
Soon, Howard came in from gardening. “Getting warm out there,” he said. Miss Piddy hopped off the couch and went to him, tail wagging furiously. He bent and scratched her ears. “How’s Miz Piddy Widdy,” he said in baby talk. When he’d settled back in his recliner, Miss Piddy jumped up and draped herself on his lap, gazing at Elsie, it seemed, with a proprietary smirk.
It reminded Elsie of the time she’d caught Fern Thomas sitting on Howard’s lap. The Thomases were a couple they’d been friends with early in their marriage, playing cards and going to movies together. One evening Elsie had walked into the living room with a tray of snacks and there was Fern, giggling, on Howard’s lap, while Buddy, Fern’s husband, sat reading a magazine. It’s not that there was anything illicit going on, but Elsie didn’t like it one bit and told Howard so later. He just laughed, said they were just joking around and she should sit on Buddy’s lap to get even. Elsie did not see it that way and their friendship with the Thomases dwindled. Miss Piddy’s sleek coat reminded her of the tight skirts Fern always wore.
***
Howard dozed off in his chair and Elsie got up to fix a cup of tea. She switched on the little kitchen TV for company. A newscaster was saying something about pet food contamination. Hundreds of dogs around the country had died; dozens of different pet food brands were involved; tearful and irate citizens expressed their feelings to the camera.
Knees creaking, Elsie knelt to rummage through the cabinet under the sink. At the sound of the cupboard door opening, Miss Piddy came to investigate. The dog waited expectantly, tail wagging, tongue lolling, as Elsie struggled to her feet. “Here we go,” she said, placing the can of rat poison on the counter.
Roger Poppen took up creative writing after retiring as a college professor in behavior analysis. He has published one novel, Mister Lucky, and several short works of fiction and nonfiction in online ezines, including Long Story Short, Flashquake, Rumble, Insolent Rudder, and others.
