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I laughed as I drove down the freeway. A sign posted on the back of the truck in front of me said, "Canine massage therapy." Instantly I pictured poodles in mud baths, German shepherds lying on cots with cucumber slices over their eyes, and dachshunds wearing towels around their waists while masseuses gave them rub downs. An entire day spa for dogs sprung to life before my eyes.
It could be that I didn't know exactly what they meant by "canine massage therapy," but I was already off on my own tangent, so that had become irrelevant. I couldn't help thinking, though, that my wife was lucky if she got an afternoon at the spa, so I couldn't imagine sending a dog to one. As far as that goes, the dogs I have owned seemed pretty happy -- downright ecstatic, actually -- when I gave them a chew toy. They acted as if it was manna from heaven, a gift from gods. I would have hardly expected that excited, jumping-up-and-down, slobbering-all-over-the-floor type of elation in response to a free coupon to the doggy masseuse. My last dog, Doofus (not his real name), would have eaten it and thanked me for the snack. Our last pet, Bubba, was a beta fish, and I wonder now if we were neglectful in how we treated him. Should we have taken him to the movies with us? Should we have fed him steak instead of those fishy smelling pellets? Should we have installed a flat screen TV in his tank rather than that ceramic coral he liked to hide under? Should he have had TiVo? Perhaps the pets I have owned just weren't sophisticated enough. Doofus, for example, like to dig holes in the backyard. This was his single greatest joy and he could not, it seemed, be deprived of it. Oh sure, I tried. I gave him a badminton set, even a Jet Ski. But, besides nibbling on them a bit, (and peeing on the Jet Ski) he pretty much ignored them and went on back to digging holes in the yard. I even tried reading books to him. I started with the classics and then, when he paid no attention, I turned to murder mysteries. All I got was a vacant stare and the occasional bark. The cats I've owned have been even harder to please. They acted so snooty that I wouldn't have been surprised to catch them sitting out on the patio having wine and crackers, while one of them started up the barbecue with its furry little paws, getting ready to grill some shrimp kebobs. Here again, I tried to get my cat's interest, especially my last cat, Buffy the Lizard Slayer. I showed Buffy pictures of ideal vacation spots, holding her pink kitty nose up to the computer screen. I even bought her ballet slippers. But she reacted with disdain -- a total lack of interest. I think back to when I was a kid and I had a hamster. It used to love the wheel in its cage and would run on it for hours, but now I'm wondering if a more modern treadmill would have been in order. Or maybe a Bowflex exercise machine. My hamster's abs were always a bit flabby. And she never really did look good in a swimsuit. In retrospect, I feel so selfish. That whole summer I spent in Yermo learning how to ride and take care of a horse, and while I spent all that time brushing its hair and cleaning its hooves, never once did it occur to me to take it to Disneyland. What kind of person am I? I have failed as a pet owner and as human being. I guess I'll never understand animals, at least, not like some people do. Not like those who take their gerbils to astrologers or those who call in sick to work because their cat has the sniffles (true story). And not like those who use the services of pet psychics to get inside the complicated workings of the minds of their animal friends. All I've ever had to offer was food, companionship, and a healthy dose of affection. So to you guys with the massage therapy business -- good luck with that. But if I were you, I'd keep some doggy biscuits in reserve, right next to the hot steamy towels. |
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