The Tale of El Guapo

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Part 3

El Guapo Makes Himself at Home

I liked the little girl’s home. We lived there with her mom and dad. It was not far from the big city.

Inside there were pictures everywhere of that poor little goat. In nearly all of them the little girl was kneeling down and smiling big. With one arm she held the little goat, and with the other she held up a blue ribbon. There were many awards, and even a tall Best of Show trophy with a little golden goat on top.

I’m not sure how, but the father had planned to use that multiple Grand Champion goat to help pay for the little girl’s education. Education is kind of like obedience school that never ends. A dog could die of old age before the little girl ever finishes her schooling.

They gave me a soft basket in the kitchen to sleep in. They also gave me my first toy—a squeaky toy. A loud squeaky toy. I love toys that are loud.

They also gave me food; plain and tasteless, but plenty of it. But the food they ate in the kitchen was not plain and tasteless: it was irresistible.

Fried chicken is a favorite food of mine. One time the mother left a plate of freshly fried chicken on the countertop. As soon as she left the kitchen, I hopped onto a chair, then to a tall barstool, then to the countertop. That’s when I discovered that I love fried chicken.

I spent the rest of the afternoon outside tied to a fence post. They forgot to leave me any water. I just snoozed and dreamed of fried chicken.

Roast beef is another favorite food of mine. The chair was gone, but a cabinet drawer was pulled out, and I used it to get to that tall barstool.

Roast is every bit as good as fried chicken. I didn’t want them to take it away from me this time, so I clamped down on the roast with my sharp teeth, jumped to the floor, and carried it over to my basket. Very tasty. I spent the rest of the afternoon outside snoozing and digesting the roast.

One of my favorite games I like to play is catch-the-pant-leg. There’s only one simple rule: once you catch the pant leg, never let go.

The father was always the biggest challenge. One day as I launched one of my fearful sneak attacks, I latched onto something solid. This was completely new. I can only describe it as an unexpected ankle-flavor that seeps out from the inside. Add this to my list of favorite foods.

The little girl is always saying that I must be a good doggy. Good? Why be good when I can be great?

The mother is always saying no-no. I don’t know what that means, and I don’t like the sound of it.

At first the father would courteously hold the door open for me when I went outside. Later he started helping me along with his foot while holding the door open. Now he doesn’t even bother to open the door before helping me outside. It’s kind of rough but fun.

Yes, this seemed like the perfect place to call home. I thought things were going rather well.

—El Guapo (rabid by choice)
(via ghost writer)

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