miércoles, 24 de junio de 2009

For those of you who do not know me, I am Trevor's master, and he is my human. He has asked me to write the first entry in this blog because he is ashamed that everyone else is on twitter and he is just now catching up with the blog world. He probably wouldn't have thought of starting this blog if it weren't for his sister who started one several months ago. Her blog seems to have inspired some sense of romanticism within him. Most afternoons I see him sitting at the window next to the dining table, looking outwards as the traffic zips past, muttering Byron lines he read last week. I'm sure he thinks this blog will be the spark for some revolution that will have the masses graffitying his oversized head on the sides of all of the highways. He doesn't know that Che Guevara was just a dirty English Sheppard's human. Che went to Bolivia for revolution? ha. He went because Sir Lancelot was suffocating in the Caribbean.

Sometimes I like to imagine that I am his sister or his mother for example. I imagine family dinners and board games in front of the television. Regardless, my lot in life was not meant to be one of luxury: slowly savoring French cheese and exquisite Bordeauxs as we laugh about the subtle yet sublime differences between one Mediterranean town to the next. Granted, the Malbecs and Cabernets here are supposed to be phenomenal, but I wouldn't know because he is never kind enough to leave me more than a spatter at the bottom of the glass. One time I did eat half of a leash which if I am not mistaken was curated in a nice 99 Mendoza Santa Ana. He was beside himself when the vet told me that they might have to operate to get it out of my stomach. If he thought that leash would do me harm he's got a lot to learn. I'm a Puerto Rican street dog; I had to eat ten day old rice and beans that I found in the dumpster with a dessert of post colonial-colonialism disguised as an Asociated Free State. Humans have no sense of irony, and I wouldn't have realized I was pooping that flimsy leash out on the crowded sidewalk if it hadn't been for the small crowd that gathered around to watch.
My girlfriends at the dog pen tell me that his mellow behavior is normal, that he needs a break from the stress and overall tumult of young adulthood pressures. They advised that I keep a close eye on him just in case he needs some cheering up here or there. Yes, cheering up is what he needs. He must be sweating from all of those hours he has spent reading Jack London's Sea Wolf, and I truly don't know how he manages to take me for walks to the park all of the time. I must be mistaken to interpret that small grin on his face as he sleepily mumbles goodbye to Tami every morning for happiness. I'm sure it is hard for him to let her go work every day while he watches season one of The Wire and drinks hot mate. He's a real saint for all he does for the both of us.
For example, the trip down to this enormous dog pen was really hard for him. He had to sit in a cushioned seat while I road for fifteen hours in the luggage compartment of an airplane in a plastic cage he bought at Wal-Mart. He says it is the only one he could find on the island, but then again he did not fall two feet to the ground of the airport garage when the plastic hunk of crap split in half two hours before the flight. And somehow working at a rock quarry for a year did not instill in him any sense of craftsmanship or handy-work, unless of course you call wrapping tape around a plastic cage until practically all of the breathing holes were covered some kind of solution to the predicament I found myself in at the airport. To quote that fat guy who lives with that adorable white lab (don't know what kind of mutt he is, but he sure is cute); "You know what really grinds my gears?" Well I will tell you what grinds my gears. Your recalcitrant human packs you into a plastic prison all the while telling you that "it is only a short trip", and then yells at you for leaving a small stool sample in the airport terminal after said plastic box breaks in two like a cheap rawhide after a couple of nibbles. Yo-Yo Ma plays the cello and I poop in airports, get over it.
I give the guy a hard time, but that morning had already left him with his hair standing on end. He had promised me one last walk on the beach before we left to this new place where he promised the dogs would be much more refined and a bit more stylish. And so, a couple of hours before we were supposed to head out and in the midst of his final packing spree he grabbed my new leash and we trotted out on a sunny day to my favorite beach. Before I continue with my story I just want to think back on the sand and those trusting tourists on that beach. They never knew what was coming to them. I still giggle when I think about the girl whose eyeball I licked while she was sleeping face-down on a beach chair while listening to her ipod. I really think she overreacted a bit. Screaming and running off like that was a bit drama queenish of her. Then again, I scream like a hyena going through a paper shredder whenever any animal larger than your average field mouse approaches me. Of course, if you think I'm squeamish, you should have seen those brothers of my human try and put a grocery store bag diaper on me when my time of the month came around. It was like watching the guys from Weird Science in the re-make of Clueless.
Anyway, after our walk on the beach we rushed back to the apartment to get things in order and to meet Edwin, who was going to take us to the airport. He was waiting for us when we arrived and offered to help Trevor with the luggage. Of course, after living in the building for five months its on moving day when the elevator goes out of service. Because the large mechanical box was non-functional Trevor opened the door to the stairwell and was about to head up when he saw a couple of plain dressed men calling someone. I suppose he assumed that they were calling about the elevator, because he made one of those stupid human comments like, "calling about the elevator eh?" One of the guys told him that they were just before the bigger one asked Trevor what apartment he lived in. As soon as he answered 4b that facial expression on those humans droids morphed into an aggressive interrogatory smirk. Here is the conversation as I remember it:
Man
"You say you live in apartment 4b? Let me see some ID."
Trevor
"Excuse me, who are you?"
Man
"I'm the police (shows shiny metal object), now let me see some damn ID"
Trevor
"Ok, here is my drivers license, can I help you with something."
Man to Edwin
"Let me see some ID""You don't have any ID?""Go stand in the corner."
Trevor in a hyper and squeaky voice
"I would like to know what this is about."
Man
"We have a warrant here for the arrest of the person who lives in apartment 4b of this building."

I don't really need to continue the dialog, there was a lot more squeaky demanding of an explanation from Trevor and increasing aggression from the officers. They were about to take Trevor to to the car before he convinced them to come to the apartment where he would show them his passport and convince them that he was not the man they were looking for. They had asked about a man with an Italian name and he claimed that mail came for the man from time to time but that he left it in the lobby whenever it did. I watch a lot of British mystery dramas and knew that brining them up with Edwin about to poop himself and three packed suitcases sitting at the door was not a good idea. Besides, the first thing they saw, apart from the getaway luggage, was a letter addressed to the man in question, which Trevor claimed he had accidentally mixed in with his mail. Now they were getting the handcuffs out. I could smell Trevor's heart in hit his feet when they explained that they had been told to arrest the dweller of apartment 4b 1300 Caribe Ave because he was accused of murdering a minor.
It was then that the moron finally told the guys he would call the owner who could explain that he was not the man that they were looking for, and that they should let him go before he curled up in the fetal position.
The call was successful and were were only delayed enough so that he did not have time to take me on a final potty stop, hence the aforementioned toilette incident.

Time to go to the park, will write more later.