The Brush Off

I got a new brush today.  There was nothing wrong with my old one, but when Dad and I were at the pet store he spotted this deluxe model, and he felt compelled to buy it,  against my vocal opposition.  You see, it had specially designed nubs which not only remove loose hair, but “massage your dog, promoting relaxation and a sense of well-being.”  I could see that it was just another scam, but Dad just had to get it.  When we got home, he was so anxious to try it out, I would have been insensitive not to play along.  I stood in my usual spot in the backyard and he brushed me thoroughly with this revolutionary piece of worthless plastic.  When he was done, he asked me if the “massage” made me feel relaxed with a sense of well-being.  I took 3 paces on the grass and pooped.  He was not impressed.

The problem was not the brush.  It was the venue.  When Mom has a massage, she goes to a spa.  She lies on a cushioned table in a pleasantly decorated and scented room.  The lights are dim and there is zen music playing softly while a masseuse gently kneads her muscles with expert hands and exotic oils.  I stand in the backyard while Dad shoves some plastic nubs up and down my body like he is sanding a piece of lumber.  Would it kill him to buy a table and put on a little music?

After the “massage” Dad had to take a call on his cell.  While he was distracted, I took the new brush and quickly gave it a proper burial in a bed of petunias.  When his call terminated, he looked frantically for the new brush.  To my gleeful amusement, he even commanded me to “Find it, Flap!”  So, I feigned a serious search of the yard, then I went into the garage, got my old brush and brought it out to him.  He just gave me a half-smile tinged with pity.  “Aw, good boy, Flap.  But that’s the wrong one.”

Now I’m bedded down for the night, but Dad is in the backyard with a flashlight, refusing to abandon the search.  I’m listening to the news on TV as my eyelids close…something about investigators thinking they know where Jimmy Hoffa is buried.

Maybe someday the news will be reporting the search for the dog brush…”mysteriously missing and rumored to be buried somewhere in California.  Its disappearance has haunted the brush-owner for many years.”

 

 

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