pavlov’s son
back in those tender, formative teenager years, we had a menagerie of animals. the first dog we added to our collection was bib. yellow fangs, crumbly teeth, matted hair, confused sexuality, putrid breath and impressive selective hearing.
despite the firm warnings and rolled up newspapers being smacked against the wall, bib often broke animal law 101 and crept up on to the sofa sometime after the lights went off.
only my parents really cared, so the rest of us wouldn’t say anything when we passed by the family room and saw bibbers resting away on the sofa. but we would all hang around when mum saw the misdemeanor, because the show was so good.
bib! she would say, in a low firm voice. off the sofa.
bib! she would say, in james earl jones tones announcing that this….is cnn. off the sofa.
at this point, bib might raise an eyebrow. her face was black but she had these cute expressive caramel coloured eyebrows.
my mother might take a step forward and possibly point a finger to the carpet.
bib! now!
and bib would lift her head from the pillow.
and then she would move.
not off the sofa, you understand. but she would move her head around, trying to see behind her, as if she, too, was interested as to whether that rascal bib was getting off the sofa. or not.
her head would stay turned, and then my mother would have to walk around the sofa, where bib was watching so intently she refused to make eye contact or acknowledge my mother.
bib!
at this point my mother would grab bib’s collar and assist her to get to the ground. bib would look up and her eyes would say
oh, you meant me? not the other bib. dreadfully sorry, my error. pip pip! i didn’t hear you.
that deaf card might have worked if in the next room, someone reaching for their jacket hasn’t brushed against the dog chains.
the minute bib heard a mouse’s fart* whisper against the dog chain, she would go beserk. ar-ROO roo, roo roo roo and then run crazily to the front door, only to be told to lie down (and not on the sofa).
nothing wrong with her hearing.
i know a lot of women would say their husband is bib, but in my world, sebastian is my bib.
i can ask him a question about school, whether he is finished his lunch, a request to start cleaning up, a query as to whether he washed his hands after doing his stand up wee wee, you name it, and he keeps pottering about, running around, singing along or looking at his beloved daddy. (pronounced daddeh).
however, if i were to escape into the pantry for a moment’s solitude with a packet of salt and vinegar crisps, seb whisks into the kitchen, all perky. eyes darting to the areas he thinks might hold the booty.
whassadoing, mummy?
having a mummy treat. you had your dessert, mummy is having hers.
wassin want mummy treat too. share.
i am torn. i can plead my rights to have my treats, or i can share, save a couple of grams of fat, and give a lesson. my righteous zinging blood overrides my greed.
well, i haven’t heard you ask nicely.
peas mummy, share cwisps.
well, i will share, because sharing is a nice thing to do with friends or family. Jesus shared with all his friends.
yes. thanttoo.
you’re welcome.
at the smallest indicator of cellophane being crinkled between the hours of 11.45am-7pm (mondays to fridays) and 7am-7pm (weekends) you are virtually guaranteed that sebastian will barrel his way into the kitchen. salivating already his beady little eyes examining your hands as she screetches to a halt infront of you.
whassadoing, mummy?
who does he think he is kidding?
he knows what i am doing. he wouldn’t race if he didn’t.
but, he doesn’t eat on the sofa, so i guess he is ahead of bib.
* just in case i ever want to go home again, i should emphasise that there were NEVER mice in my parent’s home. and that is not just because my mother is a fastidious housekeeper. i mean, she is, BUT, the main reason there were no mice is because IT WAS TOO DARN COLD FOR MICE TO EXIST WAY UP THERE IN YELLOWKNIFE. PULL OUT YOUR ATLAS AND CHECK! YELLOWKNIFE, NWT=VERY COLD!
