Have you ever wanted to get even so bad you could almost …taste it? So bad that it preyed on your mind night and day, so that as you’re drifting off to sleep you jerk awake again because it occurred to you that it might be possible, if….
Not out of spite, mind you. I mean the kind of revenge that is an absolute necessity, the sole purpose to your life, the pinnacle of your career as an evil being, simply because you want to get back at…whoever.
Well, ever since I got Grady, literally from the start, I have fantasized about getting even with him for stealing my lunch, dinner and often, bedtime snacks. At times the urge has been so strong that my attention would be diverted, something I found to be unwise when using a lawn tractor to mow under low hanging tree branches.
And then…like a gift from heaven, it happened. Revenge dropped right into my lap. Or more accurately, onto the floor. You see, in my fourth round with Old Man Winter in six days, I fell while shovelling and did something complicated and unspellable to my left arm and hand. It means sometimes it works, and lots of time it doesn’t. I drop stuff. And I swear.
Yesterday, I dropped a whole bag of Pro Plan biscuits for small dogs. Aha, you say! Bet Grady was right on those. But alas, Grady was in the cone of shame, from the worst hot spot he’s had. (I digress here to thank Comfy Cone for a collar that is bearable for a blind dog.)
And so all he could do was look. And look confused. Then excited, then annoyed, then frustrated. You get the idea. And me? I laughed. And laughed and laughed and laughed. Then I posted it on Facebook and laughed some more while all my friends told me what a mean dog mom I was. Which made me laugh again.
I had my revenge, and nobody was going to make me feel bad about it. Except Grady. I was making a new recipe for potato puffs that required cups of mashed potatoes. I had to go downstairs so I left the bowl of mashed potatoes on the cupboard. After all, he’s in the cone, isn’t he?
When I came back upstairs and resumed all the culinary preparation I discovered the bowl was half empty. Now…who could have done that? Brandy? Not likely. She’s not much higher than a potato. The cats? They’d turn up their noses unless there was cheese in it. So employing all those detecting skills I acquired while writing mystery stories, I sleuthed all the way around the counter and found the culprit. It was Grady.
And how did I know that you ask. Because despite the cone, he was the only one in the house with mashed potatoes on his nose.