No Dogs Allowed
The smell of pizza wafted in from the kitchen. My ears perked up as I sniffed at double speed. It was definitely pizza, but what were the toppings? I closed my eyes and let my brain slide into my nose, picking up the roasted scent of crispy bacon. My mouth watered and I had to will myself not to bound into the kitchen right then and there. I squeezed my eyelids together even harder, sensing the sweetness of caramelized onions, the subtle hint of crushed basil and, finally, the fruity notes of olive… ick. I pushed my tongue out of my mouth in disgust, trying to rid my taste buds of the foul realization. Why had Jasper ordered olives on the pizza when he knew it was one of my trigger-foods? I thought about avoiding the kitchen to make a statement, but was overcome once more by the scent of bacon, and trotted in.
Jasper was mid-conversation with Penelope, his newest master friend. With her swishy blonde fur and full teats that probably could have fed several small pups, it was no wonder Jasper liked her so much. She was nice enough to scratch my ears on occasion, but she only did it when Jasper was around, so I don’t think she meant it. I realized that he must have ordered olives on the pizza for her.
“Hey, buddy! Woke up for the pizza, didn’t you?” Jasper said, bending down to rub my belly. I wagged my tail and rolled onto my back to give him more rubbing room. Penelope smiled in our direction, but I have a feeling it was only aimed at him. I lay there and enjoyed my scratch for a few seconds before hopping back up, eyes on the pizza box. “Okay, fine.” Jasper said, eyeing me. “But just one bite.”
I was adopted when I was only eight weeks old—seven really, although Jasper didn’t know it at the time. I get the feeling the breeder lied to him because apparently we’re not supposed to be adopted until the eight-week mark… Something about “development” and “social interaction” and “not biting.” I think I turned out okay, though. I only give loving nips.
I don’t remember much from when I was a puppy, but I remember sleeping in a towel that smelled like my Mama. Jasper had taken the time to rub it on her before he took me away, so I wouldn’t be too homesick. For a while it worked, but then I realized he’d let me sleep in the bed with him if I whined enough, so I started whining every night. Eventually, I traded the towel for a permanent spot under the covers—right next to Jasper’s feet, so I could wake him every morning by licking the salt off his toes. I don’t remember much about my Mama anymore, but in my mind she was beautiful. Tall, smooth, and fast—with hardly any white around her nose.
Jasper and I were quick pals. He used to take me with him to play soccer in the park—there was a sign that said “No Dogs Allowed” but Jasper said that if someone asked, my name was “No-Dog.” I didn’t really get it but I wagged my tail anyways. We spent hours in the park, running and rolling and getting so tired that we had to lie on our sides with our tongues lolling out until we could catch our breath again. I was good at soccer, but I was even better at baseball.
This one time, Jasper took me on a walk near the county high school during a baseball game. I could tell it was a game day because I could hear the cheers and smell the various types of meat being grilled from the field behind the school building. Masters walked to and fro wearing caps, occasionally pausing to pat my head and let me lick their hamburger juice-covered fingers. I pulled at my leash, praying Jasper would see how much I wanted to go to the game. He tugged back at it, telling me no. I whined and pulled again so he would see that this wasn’t just any old baseball game, but potentially my calling. He tugged back again and scolded me. I whimpered, not wanting to upset Jasper, but longing desperately to catch a pop fly.
I decided to take a chance; when Jasper looked away to talk to someone, I slipped out of my collar and jetted towards the field.
Ears flapping and tongue hanging out, I sprinted behind the building, past teenaged girl masters with heart-shaped sunglasses and elderly masters with walking sticks, past little boy masters with ice cream cones and married masters with screaming baby masters, until I finally reached my destination. I halted, staring in awe at the pitcher, who was rearing up to pitch a fastball—I assume it was a fastball because that’s what Jasper throws for me, but it very well could have been a “curveball” or “change-up,” although I’ve only heard about those on TV. The ball rolled effortlessly out from his palm, moving towards the batter who pulled back his bat and crushed it out to left field—mere meters from where I stood. I went rigid, my eyes on the ball. It came closer and closer, pulling my one-track mind to it like a cookie that falls off the counter; and suddenly there were no more onlookers, no more hamburgers, no more squirrels, and no more players. Without thinking, I bolted to the spot where I knew it would fall; the left fielder didn’t have a chance. I let the ball hit the ground once, so as not to break my teeth—I’d learned that one the hard way—before scooping it into my mouth.
There was an eruption of shouts and cries around me, but I was on a high and none of them could stop me. I ran as fast as I could, ball in mouth, to first, second, third, and—finally—to home plate. Both teams chased after me, but I was too quick for them. I ran the bases again; drool raining down my tongue, wishing Penelope could be there to witness my proudest moment, to see that I was worth smiling at. From the crowd I could hear a mixture of angry shouting and hysterical laughter. People were frantically speaking into their cellphones and taking pictures. I was a celebrity! But I was starting to get tired. My tongue was dry from the dusty diamond, and the ball was becoming harder to hold on to. I slowed my pace, watching the group of intermingled players as they watched me, their dirt covered fur poking out from under their caps, and I wondered how they never felt cold with so little of it, until, finally, I stopped.
“Drop it.” A voice from behind me said. I turned to face my master, ball still clenched in my teeth. “Brody,” he said testily in his ‘I’m-not-happy-with-you’ voice, “I said drop it.” I obeyed. The ball fell to the ground, covered in mud and slobber. I cocked my head at Jasper, wagging my tail and giving him my sweetest ‘I-didn’t-mean-it’ stare. He slid the collar back on over my head, tightened it for good measure, and dragged me off the field, scolding me along the way. I felt sorry—I hadn’t meant to interrupt the game—I just wanted to play!
On our way back from the high school, Jasper got stopped by a master wearing the same outfit as the good guys on TV—except he didn’t look like a good guy. He was underfed, balding, and frowning. “Excuse me, sir, is this your dog?” He asked. I growled at him. Clearly I was Jasper’s dog—could he not see that we were walking arm-in-leash?
Jasper tugged at my leash to stop me from growling. I stopped, but only because I had already been a bad dog that day. “Yes, sir.” The other master looked me up and down, taking in my dirty paws and unkempt fur. I looked him up and down back.
“Are you aware that what your dog did today is illegal?” He asked. Jasper gave me an “I’m still not happy with you” look, before responding.
“I was not, sir, I’m sorry. He got off the leash, but it will not happen again.” On the “not,” he tugged one more time on my leash. I whimpered and lay down at his feet.
“Well, I’m only going to give you a warning this time, but if it happens again, you will be fined. There are no dogs allowed on this field. Are we clear?”
Jasper nodded and apologized again, then the meanie-good-guy master walked away. Jasper knelt down next to me. I shrunk into myself, preparing to be
yelled at, but Jasper just gave me a wink and said “Good thing your name is No-Dog, isn’t it?”
\
This is SO SWEET.