A Morning Trifle

I was awoken this morning by the gnashing of 'Stephen,' the alter ego my that dog Stan occasionally inhabits. The transformation usually begins with a couple of quick jerks of his head, followed by a roll in which he vigorously rubs his rather impressive cranium on the floor before flipping onto his back and gyrating uncontrollably, moaning and mawing in tones not heard since pornography was outlawed in Mogadishu.

"Stan, please, it's 7:45," I soothed. The growling and jerking continued.

"Stan, you're bunching the rug."

"STAN!"

"Oh, fuck you too," he retorted, rolling to his feet while emitting a not-so-tiny fart. He walked out of the bedroom.

I lay in bed for a few more minutes, then grabbed my Summer robe and headed downstairs. The unmistakable smell of cigarillos and cheap brandy was emanating from the music parlor. I found Stan there, reclining on the Moroccan fainting couch, the offending vices somehow balanced on each of his paws.

"Jesus, what's wrong with you? You can't smoke in the house." He could have at least made coffee, I thought.

"Open a window."

I turned on the ceiling fan and sat down at the piano, riffling through the opening chords of an old Ink Spots' song, "Java Jive."

"Well, here we are. Another day in paradise." He looked out the window and barked twice at a mother pushing a stroller down the sidewalk.

"How about a song, Stan?" I glissed up to the suspended five chord and gave him an expectant look.

"Oh, stuff it. I'm not your monkey."

"True, you're my dog. Now come on, you take the high part..."

"Seriously, what's the point?" He put his snout into the brandy snifter and dunked his tongue in and out of the brown liquid five or six times. "I'm turning seven in a couple of months. And what have I done with my life? What have I done?"

God, not this again. "You're living it to the fullest, Stan. You're right where you need to be. You snap at flies, you stare down opossums. You are one of the most prolific sleepers I have ever known. Most importantly, you make people happy. And you've got a lovely singing voice. Now let's do this, from the top..."

"I'm thinking of taking a lover," he sighed.

I turned back to the keyboard and picked out the opening trills of "Evergreen" with my right hand. "Stan, you forgot again," I said, "you've got no balls."

Dropping his drink to the floor, he rolled onto his back to examine himself. "Oh. My. God." He took a long drag on the cigarillo and blew a putrid plume of smoke towards the ceiling. "Then there really is nothing left. Nothing."

"Buck up, little buddy," I said, retrieving his glass from the floor and refilling it from the half-empty bottle of E&J. "How about I make you a Vegemite omelette?"

Still on his back, he eyed me warily. " 'Perhaps when we find ourselves wanting everything, it is because we are dangerously close to wanting nothing.' "

"Sylvia Plath. You dog."

"Takes one to know one." He hopped off the couch and stretched deeply. I could smell the liquor on him from four feet away. "Now make me some eggs, shithead." He padded off towards the kitchen.