So let me open today by saying this: my mother is not going to like this blog very much. There will be a high price paid by me for having written it. And my mother pre-warned me that if I chose this topic, she would be angry. But the comic material is just too good to ignore and I have decided that my mother’s annoyance is worth the humor.
My mother has a 8 pound Yorkshire terrier. She originally intended on calling him Sam, after my father; but the pet store man, simply said Why not call him Samson? And it stuck. And Samson is a more appropriate name anyway—Samson is powerful---even after a haircut. He rules my mother with a furry iron fist. Samson is the alpha. My mother sits, stays, and comes at Samson’s whim.
My mother believes Samson is her child—so much so that she will say to me Gee you haven’t seen your brother in a while—and she doesn’t mean Mark, my human brother—she means Samson, my canine brother.
Now if you know me, you know that I love dogs—all dogs. I have loved dogs my whole life despite the fact that I am allergic to dog hair. When I was little I would play with my friend’s dachshund named Dondi, and would sneeze uncontrollably and would be covered with hives and welts all over my body after loving and petting him. And my mother would say: Were you playing with the dog? And I would lie and say no despite the fact that you didn’t need a forensic investigation to determine I was lying.
But back to Samson. Yes, I love all dogs but I love Samson a whole lot less than any other animal I have known—and that includes George, my Grandmother Manello’s fox terrier who got his butt wiped everytime he came in from his walk (I swear it’s true). George, like Samson, had a confused pack leader who relinquished all control to their canine.
My mother says Samson “has issues”—my mother says Samson’s terrorist behavior stems from the fact that for 10 days when he was a puppy he was sick with a respiratory infection. No, that is not it at all. Samson’s behavioral problems stem from my mother’s refusal to treat him like a dog--despite paying $1500 to a personal dog trainer who advised her that treating a canine as if he was human is never in the best interest of either the dog or the owner.
And Samson, as many Yorkies do, has allergies—lots of them. Samson is allergic to human dander. Samson is allergic to my mother. He is also allergic to eggs, wheat, beef and ragweed—just to name a few. Consequently every 21 days, Samson receives allergy shots. At the beginning I was giving him his injections—that’s when he needed them every day—but Samson was not a very good patient and thought trying to bite me with his sharp, nasty, little incisors would deter the shot administration—and he was correct. And that’s when we (because my mother can’t drive to the vet herself) starting bringing him every 21 days for his shots. Yep. Every 21 days for 3 years now I have been in West Hempstead Animal Hospital with the little beast getting him his shots. My mother thanks me every time we bring Samson and says “you’re a good sister.” No I am not. I am a good daughter.
Not too long ago it occurred to me that based on a Yorkie’s life expectancy and my mother’s age, that Samson is likely to outlive my mother. So I told her that because she loves Samson so much, I would lay Samson at the foot of her coffin and together they could go to their eternal resting place. To which my mother asked But wouldn’t that mean that you would have to kill him first? And I shrugged and said I guess that would be true. And my mother got very upset. You see, I am not taking the furry little beast if she dies. Samson tries to bite Cosmo, my sweet, submissive, mini Golden-doodle. And Cosmo is my pride and joy. And I am done with terriers—they truly are the terrorists of the canine world.
And so my mother told me soon after this little discussion that if she died, and Samson was still living, Blanca, our cleaning woman would take care of him. But here is one thing I know for sure about my pragmatic El Salvadorian cleaning woman: there is no way she will bring Samson to the vet every 21 days. Nor will she ever spend the money on allergy serum and injections. Nor will she spend the money on his high priced wheat-free, egg-free, chicken and brown rice holistic dog food or the omega-3 oils for his skin--and the Benadryl tablets. Nor will she cook fresh chicken thighs every day to top the dog’s food because he is a fussy eater. Nope. If I don’t have the dog put down for his eternal rest with my mother, Samson is going to scratch himself to death if he lives with Blanca. So I told my mother that if she wanted to bequeath Samson to Blanca, she needed to amend her will, and figure out how much it would cost for Samson’s drug and food habit, and leave the funds to the dog or else he was going in the coffin as planned with my mother.
The thing is this: I understand that my mother loves her dog, I just don’t understand why she loves Samson so much. Maybe it’s because Samson is really good looking. He is an excellent accessory—like a Gucci bag. And when she walks him down Seventh Street she gets lots of compliments. Or maybe it's because Samson is a good watch dog –he alerts her when Otto, the superintendent of her building, is in her hallway. But probably the reason why my mother loves Samson so much is just because all mothers love their children—even when they are badly behaved. My mother loves Samson just like Mrs. Estevez loves her son, Charlie Sheen. And trust me—Samson is as badly behaved as Charlie Sheen---and just like Charlie Sheen, Samson is “WINNING.”
Just curious: can you be arrested for fratricide if your brother is a canine?
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