If Topaz Could Talk

(My beloved dog Topaz is about four million years old. No one’s sure just how old, but probably around 18. This is how I imagine her morning monologue goes.)

Sigh.

I’m on the floor. Next to the wall. This is a bed, supposedly. But look at it. Thin and really, just not good. That’s a real bed, right there.

The queen is still asleep in it. How I love her.

James, though. He’s up there. On the bed. He should know dogs aren’t allowed on the bed. I hate him. He is very bad. Very bad. Bad, bad dog.

The queen tries to make me go up there sometimes. She says “Up! Topaz, Up!” I go but I hate it. I feel guilty. See, I learned a long time ago, from someone else. No dogs on the bed! Bad things happen, very bad things.

Dogs, no.

And that James. He is a terrible dog. Just terrible. His tail is too long and he only wags it when he’s mad. The noise he makes isn’t even a dog noise. It’s like he’s dying. Mrwreowr. Whatever!

And those birds he brings home. And mice.

No dog eats mice.

Look how he’s staring at me. Smug, stupid, tiny dog with triangle ears. I think I’ll kill him. Or maybe I’ll just yelp a little and start to whine.

Oh, that did it. The queen is up.

“Shut up, please,” she tells me. She puts the little dog bed over her head.

James stares at me. Contempt. It goes both ways. I hate him.

Maybe today is the day he will die.