the bertie drabbles
I should have been an actor.
I mean, compared to all those overpaid soap opera actors who simper and cry and slap each other to show their anger, I'm the best of the best. After all, I play a dog so well that no one would suspect that up here, in this small brain of mine, I have a lot going on.
Maybe I shouldn't say no one would suspect me, because I think someone does. Piper, the lovely lady who lives downstairs, seems like a smart one, brighter than most of the dim bulbs I interact with on a daily basis. She sees things. She makes astute observations. She gets me.
When I think about how I ended up living with the buffoon I call master, I often wonder how there is any justice in the world. Clive is not bright. He likes to think he is. But he's not. How he was chosen to head his organization, in which I try not to involve myself and therefore know little about, is beyond me. I'm entirely convinced he's got cotton fluff stuffed up inside his skull instead of actual proper grey matter. It's the only explanation for the stupid things he continues to do.
I'll give his stupidity one benefit - he always forgets to close the door (imbecile that he is) and that means I have free reign of the building. I go where I want, when I want, and I like it that way.
My explorations tend to bring me back to Piper. I like her, overall. Compared to other humans, she's ace. She smells nice, she's got a lovely voice that's not too high and not too low, and she's very open to snuggling. Plus she spoils me. Biscuits, food scraps, bones from the pet store - I'm not sure whether its her intention to fatten me up but either way, it's working. The thing that appeals to me most in regards to Piper is the fact that she seems to be the only one who understands me. We have a connection. I know her feelings and she knows mine. Most humans can't even manage that basic facet of interconnectivity and interpersonality in their relationships. Piper has transcended the natural order of the world and has identified on a personal level with me, a dog.
Dog. Dog. I hate that term. I much prefer the species name canine. It sounds classier and more sophisticated. Much classier than dog. Being called a dog limits me, I think. It lumps me in with all those other four legged monstrosities walking around on the streets these days - or worse, being carried in purses. If anyone tried to get me into a purse, I would bite the shit out of them before I let that happen. How fucking humiliating. What's worse is that the majority of these dogs have given up on serious thinking. I understand it's difficult to be motivated to participate in deep thinking and cognitive processing when the rest of the human world expects you to just lie around, eat all day, play fetch, etc. etc. but if we stop, we'll lose the ability altogether, you know? We have to keep up the art. We can't degenerate to a species that sniffs each others butts and chases after a stick that was never thrown.
But I digress...
This morning I did my routine for Piper - the play acting like I've been shot and killed. It's a little basic for me but it makes Piper happy so I do it every once in a while. If only she realized what I was truly capable of - I'd be famous. I'd be a millionaire dog with no opposable thumbs to help me spend my money. I think I'd just give it all to Piper. She seems like she deserves it. I'm not sure because she hasn't mentioned it (and without human speech I can't bring it up or anything) but I think she's had a tough life. You can see it in her eyes sometimes, just an unexplainable sadness. She cries sometimes at night when she thinks I don't know. She looks weary. Tired. Like she's been fighting for years and now she just wants it to be done.
Sister, I know the feeling.
I wish I had the chance to speak to her, to tell her she wasn't alone. I think I'd have a lot to say to Piper if I could talk. We'd chat for hours about everything. I'd tell her about all the plebeians I observe outside my window and she'd tell me about all those books sitting on her shelf, filled with stories and fantastical worlds. I'd love to hear her voice reading those words, telling those tales. I think she'd probably do it brilliantly.
She deserves someone who she can talk to. I know it can't be me, as much as I wish it could be. I just hope for her sake that one day she'll find someone who thinks as highly of her as I do. Then maybe she won't be so sad anymore.