Warm Fire

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic


Is your loving dog devoted to you? What could be going on inside that little brain? What is s/he really thinking as s/he lays there staring at you?

Submitted: November 23, 2017

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Submitted: November 23, 2017

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It’s warm in front of the fire. The rug is soft, so soft. I am glad they bought that thicker rug pad. In a few minutes the blower will come on, then… pure heaven! You know, I could pull my bed over right in the hot air stream, but that may be too much comfort and definitely too much bother. I would probably doze off and not be able to just lay here and enjoy myself, watching them.

The big talking electric window is turned off and Dad is sleeping in his chair. Mom is using her little electric window, reading. It’s quiet. Perfect.

Mom and Dad always try to coax me onto their chair, but why should I? Every time I do jump up there with them, all they want to do is pet me and talk to me. It’s understandable they can’t seem to leave me alone, but c’mon guys, enough is enough. And if I do give in and sit with them, I can’t stare at them, and I know they like that. It’s the least I can do to make them happy.

Anyway, it’s way over on the other side of the room, away from the fireplace, and is under that big hanging bright light which is just waiting for me to doze off before it drops, “Wham!” right on my head. If I lived, it would scare the crap outta me.

Speaking of scary, you should see their chair. It moves! Their legs go up and heads go down, and instead of sitting up, like normal people, they are almost laying down. It’s magic. Give Dad a few minutes like that and he will be asleep. His legs go up and “snxxx,” he is breathing loud again. I don’t know why he doesn’t go into the other room to sleep. He took me for a walk and fed me, he completed his jobs. He should go to bed.

“Oh, there you are,” Dad said sleepily. “I should have known.”

“What? You gotta a problem with me? If you weren’t so cheap and raised the thermostat above 60 once in a while, maybe I could sleep anywhere, but noooooo. I’ll just stay here, thanks.”

“I hear some dogs have burned their tails by laying so close to the fire.”

“Perhaps you have forgotten, but I am obviously not “some dog,” I snorted. I don’t really snort. Snorting is beneath me, but you get the idea.

“No, I have not forgotten. You will not let me forget, even for a moment.”

“Oh? Do I detect an attitude this evening?” I had better stop this in its tracks or we will have an issue. And I was so happy just a minute ago.

“You know,” he started. “Maybe it isn’t your fault you like the heat. You are part Havanese, the national dog of Cuba, you know, and it’s hot in Cuba.”

Slowly turning my head away from the fire and looking directly at Dad, I say in a calm, controlled voice, “Of course, I know that… Father. How could I not know? You bring it up like five times a day. You should give it a rest.”

“Stop exaggerating,” he replied. “Maybe your Cuban blood needs to be warmer than the poodle part. That’s all I am saying.”

“So that’s it huh? You are bringing that up again? You know I had no control over that. My parentage is what it is. The sins of my father are back haunting me again! Sometimes, I really I don’t believe you. It is what it is, and I am what I am, just deal with it.”

“Now calm down. Take it easy. You know we don’t care about your pedigree, or lack of one.”

“Unbelievable! Here I was enjoying this nice soft carpet and warm fire and you have to start in on me. What did I do to you?”

“You know,” he said in a decidedly malicious tone, “I did turn on the fire and I can just as easily turn it back off, and if your attitude doesn’t change very, very soon, little girl, I may just do that.”

I have noticed when he is losing an argument, or rather, friendly debate like this one, he often resorts to threats. I really don’t think it is fair, but as he constantly says to me, “Life isn’t always fair.”

“Dear, dear, Daddy, you look so comfortable over there with your feet up and reclining in your chair. I would feel so bad if you had to walk way over here to turn off the fireplace. Why don’t you have another sip of your wine and turn on the talking window. I know that makes you happy.”

Moments later, I hear him breathing loudly and I roll back towards the fire, winner of yet another argument, I mean debate.

 


© Copyright 2018 Dave Oney. All rights reserved.

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