On My Own

He’s away again this week.

He thought hiding the Bag of Eternal Gloom in the closet would keep me from figuring it out, but He was mistaken.

Because I am Gromit, Genius Dog.

I conducted a full investigation while He was showering and, upon discovering said B.E.G, proceeded directly to the middle of the floor in order to affect my very best Woe is Dog pose.

I’ve perfected it over the years. It starts with the eyes. Always the eyes.

It’s a withering glare, quickly followed by a brief, hopeful ‘You’re Not Really Leaving Me Alone with She Again’ glimpse.

Then, when I know I have He’s full attention: unimaginable, soul-penetrating Peepers of Grief.

If it’s allergy season, I can actually work up a few tears.

Of course in my life, there’ve been few exceedingly sad moments, so I try to imagine not being able to lick my wiener ever again. It works pretty well.

Then I flop down on the bed, carefully positioning my hindquarters so that’s all He will see upon exiting the bathroom. As soon as He is within earshot, I let fly The Whole-Body Sigh. In truth, it’s more of a groan than a sigh and often can be heard in the next room.

It’s highly effective.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“It’s Wednesday, Gromit,” She says with more enthusiasm than ought be allowed before 7 a.m.

“He’s coming home tomorrow. And Grandma is coming to visit you today.”

I respond with one of my more advanced maneuvers: The Sigh, quickly followed by a Roll Over and Face the Wall combo.

Don’t get me wrong, Nobody’s better than She when it comes to leg massages and ear scratches. And She is the Queen of the Butt Rub.

But my whole standard of living goes down when He’s away.

For example, upon returning from my morning constitutional, I expect breakfast accompanied by fresh water in my bowl.

He knows this. I suspect it is because He is a man, although He doesn’t lick his wiener ever, which is unsettling, since wiener-licking is without question the greatest joy of being a member of the male species.

Anyhow.

He knows the schedule. He sticks to it. After eight years, He ought to.

She, on the other hand, is always fiddling around cleaning things and doesn’t get to my food before I’m at the door, with my Terse Bark, demanding to be let in.

And that’s another thing. I never have to break out the Terse Bark with He. He is always at the door, waiting to let me in. Better than a garage door opener, He is.

“Sorry Grom, let me get that for you,” She says, as if sorry makes up for having my entire day ruined because of a flagrant schedule violation.

Then, with nothing more than a Bye Grom, Love You Dog, Be a Good Boy, She leaves.

Be a Good Boy. As if I have a choice. As if I could be anything else.

And it’s only Wednesday.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Those damn morning doves on the chimney
I am reading: Nothing, She never brings the paper in, either
And I am: Dog of Woe