The View From Down Here
Some things people do make me wanna hide behind my toys.
My name is Piper La Grange. I’m an eleven year old female Border Terrier. I’m here to discuss a pet peeve with humans. Stop patting me on the head and asking “How’s the view down there.” From up where you are, it’s something out of a Judy Collins song.¹
“Bows and flows of angel hair
Ice cream castles in the air
Feather canyons everywhere
I’ve looked at clouds that way.”
Down here it’s different. When I’m with people, the forecast is scattered asses and a thirty percent chance of butt crack.
To be clear, I don’t mind being short. I don’t care that you call me sweet pea, cutie patootie, and cuddle bug. That you bore me with baby-talk. I don’t even give a cat’s ass that the Great Dane dad down the street mocks me with his “Short People”² rip-off.
“You’ve got little baby legs
You stand so low
We’ve got to pick you up
Just to say hello
You’ve got grubby little paws
A dirty little mind
You’re gonna get us every time.”³
What I can’t overlook are the disturbing things you do like I’m not even there.
Take my babysitters. They’re the people I stay with when Mom overnights on Mackinac Island to inspect the beefcake at the French Outpost. In Escanaba to jig for frisky Yoopers at Mo’s Pub. In Sault Sainte Marie, Ontario to buy cases of Coffee Crisps®, BeaverTails®, ketchup chips, and other Canadian delicacies she can’t get in the States.
My sitters are Mom’s fellow church ladies, plus their husbands and boyfriends. They’re all nine to ten years old. That’s in dog years; in human years, they’re in their sixties and seventies. Mom introduces them to me as my “aunts” and “uncles.” And they’re bona fide dog-people. They give me plenty of food, stinky treats, walks, and belly rubs. I have unlimited sofa, bed, and BarcaLounger® privileges. Blankies are scattered about the house for me to nest in. The living room basket is stocked with toys. The backyard is stocked with squirrels.
The problem is, my sitters do things that can’t be unseen after I see ‘em.
For instance, my uncles parade around the house in their undies. Problem is, Uncle Bert can’t keep his bat and balls in his briefs. If I look up as he walks by, there’ll be his mouse, peakin’ out of its house. Uncle Stan is forever shoving his hand down his pants to corral his clackers. But when he tucks one into his Speedos®, the other pops out. I’ll see it dangling up there, like a tiny paratrooper that got hung up while bailing out of a plane.
Even when my uncles keep their baloneys in their boxers, I’m loth to look up. When I glanced skyward the other day, I saw a dark cloud shaped like a chipmunk. Turns out it was just the hashmark on Uncle Wally’s tighty-whities.
Likewise, my aunties bustle about in their granny panties. Trouble is, those don’t completely cover their muffs. That’s because northern Michigan women have wooly nether regions. It’s understandable: ya gotta be furry to survive an Up North Winter. But that doesn’t make the view easier on the eyes.
For example, Aunt Bea’s turf is like a thicket. She can’t just trim it; she’s gotta de-thatch and aerate it.
Aunt Harriet’s heinie is hairier than mine. During my last overnight with her, she strode into the living room where Uncle Jethro was watching Bassmasters. She wore her sexiest pink Lycra® girdle with a lacy panty skirt, a matching Bullet Bra, and little black bows on the straps holding up her nylons. She squared off in front of him and said “How’s about you clean out the cobwebs in my womb room?” “Yippee,” muttered Uncle Jethro, as he switched off the TV. “I get to bungle in the jungle again.”
Ironically, Uncle Jethro lacks the dense undergrowth found in other Michiganders’ nooks and crannies. Just a few twisted strands sprout from his keister. They look like a scraggly Bristlecone Pine tree growing from a crack between two boulders.
The hair in my babysitters’ crevices varies. A wavy field of fernery covers Aunt Felicia’s cooch. Ornamental grasses burst from Aunt Alice’s pits. Common fescue covers Aunt Lucy’s lady bits, though to me it looks like an invasive species. As for Aunt Gladys, her short ’n curlies are anything but. She hasn’t shorn ’em in twenty years. As a result, they’ve become Lady Godiva tresses which descend to her knees. When I walk ‘tween her legs they brush my head, like how the curtain in an automatic car wash swipes a pickup truck’s roof.
Here’s another thing that spoils my view: ill-fitting bras. I don’t like looking up and seeing underboobs looking down at me. Yeah, I’m just a terrier. But even I know when a bra’s underband isn’t snug against the skin. I’ve repeatedly used head tilts to point this out to Aunt Edith. Even so, she’s yet to downsize the band and upsize the cups on her over-the-shoulder boulder holder. The same goes for Uncle Ned. Clearly, his hoary moobs need bigger holsters.
Speaking of my uncles, it doesn’t matter if they wear boxers, briefs, boy shorts, tighty whities, or trunks: they gotta stop shellacking them with hash marks. They need to replace their gaskets. Tighten their connections. Scrape away the corrosion. If their tooter’s in the midst of a forest, check it for intruding roots. And they can’t ignore the issue if they wear a G-string or jock. They’ll still get hash marks. Only those’ll make a guy’s cheeks look like there’s a pencil-thin mustache between ‘em.
Yeah, those sights make me wanna toss my kibble. But there’s worse ones that make me turn tail and run. I see those when my babysitters are fixin’ to make some boom-chick-a-bow-wow.
The signs may be subtle. Like when Aunt Alice stepped over me while I was dozing on the rug; I looked up and realized she was going commando under her muumuu. Other times, my sitters’ intentions are obvious. As when Aunt Gabby strode into the living room wearing her crotchless Carhartt® coveralls, and straddled Uncle Ed as he lay napping on the sofa.
Aunt Flo’s in a class by herself. Contrary to her name, she’s been dry for twenty years. That hasn’t stopped her. She says “Where there’s lube, there’s a way.” The problem is this. She doesn’t apply just enough to glaze her doughnut hole. She wants to batter-dip Uncle Hank’s corndog. So she splashes it on, then drips lube from the bathroom to wherever she’s gonna get her butter churned. Did I say “drips?” It’s more like a steady drizzle. Think of it this way. When Aunt Flo creams her Twinkie, she’s like a horny rain cloud. If she passes overhead, I need the slicker Mom bought me.
There’s two more things you humans do that make me wanna pull my collar down over my eyes. One of them is your tattoos. Just looking at ’em makes my poop chute pucker. I don’t get it. Mom has to drag me to the vet’s office to get my annual rabies, distemper, and parvo pokes. You humans actually want people to prick you.
True, your tats can be funny. Like the words “Above The Knee” inked just north of Uncle Fred’s right kneecap, and the word “Baloney” just south of it. Your tats may be ironic. Such as the tattoo of Tattoo from Fantasy Island on Aunt Vivian’s left shoulder. They can convey important medical information. Like the Do Not Resuscitate order inked into Uncle Cecil’s chest.
That said, some of tats on my sitters’ boy and girl parts make me cringe. I get it. They forget things when making rumpy-pumpy, so they tattoo reminders on themselves. Aunt Edna has “Insert Shaft A Into Flap B” tattooed above her love tunnel, and “Exit Only” below her back door. Uncle Jake has “Do Not Crush” pricked next to his package. And “This End Up” onto his knobber.
Nonetheless, needles don’t belong anywhere near your privates. The boy-dachshund next door, for instance, allows only two things to touch his tallywacker: his play-date’s muff; and his own slippery tongue.
The other thing which makes me wince is when you Botox® your naughty bits. I realize you want to make them appealing to your partners. But Uncle Ted crosses the line when he needles his nuts. I’ve repeatedly tilted my head to tell him it’s risky. “I agree,“ he says. “But I want my balls to look their best when I give Aunt Patty her weekly pickle tickle. A bit of Botox® before coitus does the trick: by the time my boner pill kicks in, my wrinkly raisins look smooth as Muscatel grapes.”
[1]: “Both Sides Now” by Joni Mitchell, popularized by Judy Collins, Songfacts, https://www.songfacts.com/lyrics/judy-collins/both-sides-now
[2]: “Short People” by Randy Newman, Genius, https://genius.com/Randy-newman-short-people-lyrics
[3]: You’re damn right we will.
