Furry Logic

Mom was chatting with a friend recently, and after a lot of heming and hawing and don’t-take-this-the-wrong-way, he wanted to know why most Indians dislike dogs.

Apparently, every time he takes his medium-sized mongrel to the park to toss him a Frisbee, the few Indians he has met there cower in fright, gather their children around and ask him to leash his dog.

I was shocked to hear that. Since when do desis speak up? Obviously, these people are not from where my humans are.

Most desis I know are mortally afraid of dogs. Some act quite the same way mom does when she spots a lizard. When the humans were looking to buy a home, mom refused to even consider a particular house because it had a dead lizard floating in the swimming pool. She was so disturbed that she made sure dad and the real estate agent scouted properties before she even stepped out of the car.

A few people react to my advances in much the same fashion. Normally sensible friends of the family stand on kitchen countertops and scream until they’re red in the face when I approach them. Babies start crying; pregnant women hold on to their bellies; desi grandparents out walking cross the street; mothers force feed their children using me as a threat, etc.

I suppose the basis for this irrational fear springs from a traumatic childhood attack by an abused stray. I've heard of people who've been chased or bitten by neighborhood dogs and are prone to anxiety attacks when they see me or my kind.

I understand, of course. What I'm confused about is this: if we applied the above theory to mom who's been pinched, prodded, groped, squeezed, grabbed, felt up and fondled from childhood through adulthood, shouldn't she logically run in the opposite direction every time she sees an approaching male?

Why then does she wilfully share her mind and body with a man - even one as gentle as dad - going so far as to seduce him at times for her own prurient needs?

According to my calculations, this woman should be a lesbian.

Does anybody else find this queer or is it just me?

A Rose By Any Other Name

My dear readers,

No, no, don’t clutch your hearts in despair; this is not a ‘Dear John / Jane’ letter. I’m not writing to inform you that after careful consideration and considerable introspection, I’m breaking up with you because blogging requires too much time and energy – two precious commodities that I would do best to conserve for my family.

I’m not even writing to let you know that my inbox is empty, and really, the only reason I awake each morning is to check my e-mail.

Some of you have complained that this page doesn’t update as frequently as your preferred news channel. Believe me it would, if not for that pesky thing called life that gets in the way each morning to distract me with daily duties and task lists.

What duties can a dog have, some of you wonder. Well, besides defending my turf against the occasional fly, I am also my mom’s official foot warmer, vacuum cleaner, mind reader, walk motivator, chief cuddler, under-the-bed monster chaser and kid distracter. And if that’s not enough, I do my part in keeping the environment clean by consuming any kind of paper or plastic debris strewn on the roadside, in addition to the rare dead bird or discarded aluminum foil.

You see, I’m at my creative best when I’m voiding the previous day’s excess on a grassy patch, but unfortunately, there’s usually no keyboard within typing distance.

By now you must be wondering if this post has a point. I’m wondering the same thing. See what I meant about distractions?

Ah, yes, this post was to set the record straight on my gender. It appears that there’s some confusion on whether I’m male or female. Of course, I’m highly insulted that you can’t tell by my face, but then I realize you’re only human. Certainly, my own humans had no idea that I would enjoy five minutes of fame when they christened me.

Mom: “What should we call him?”
Dad: “It’s up to you. Is dinner ready?”
Mom: “Let’s call him ‘Brownie.’”
Dad: “He also has patches of black, white and grey on him.”
Mom: “OK, ‘Patches,’ then.”
Dad pursed his lips.
Mom: “I don’t want to call him ‘Jimmy’ or ‘Tommy’ or some generic dog name. And we can’t call him ‘Peanut’ because Peanut next door will be confused.”
Dad: “How about Jeeves?”
Mom: “He’s not a butler!”
Dad: “Frederick Algernon Trotteville?”
Mom: “Fat chance! Since he’s a terrier mix, I say let’s call him ‘Terri’ for short.”
Dad (rapidly losing patience): “Fine. Can we have dinner now?”

As you can tell, important decisions in this household are reached in less time than it takes to pick one's nose, but other matters, such as switching toilet paper brands, are deliberately planned and meticulously executed.

Well, it's official now. I was born male, and exhibit definite masculine tendencies, such as a short attention span and a preoccupation with my privates, but I somehow possess an amazing insight into the female psyche.

I say I'm naturally gifted, but mom thinks it's because I'm fixed - a procedure she would like to recommend to about three-quarters of the male populace.

Anybody dare to care to disagree with her?

-- Casanova Canine

Chor Machaye Shor

Following the dictates of her tongue, mom headed to the company cafeteria around lunchtime to get some ketchup to go with her meal.

As she grabbed a packet of ketchup from a plastic bin by the door and proceeded toward the exit, a loud voice halted her in her tracks.

“Excuse me,” said a busty Latina in a hair net, “you’re gonna have to pay for that.”

“For the ketchup?” asked mom incredulously.

“Uh-huh,” said the woman, placing her hands on her hip. “Anything that leaves this cafeteria … knives, forks, paper napkins, ketchup … has to be paid for,” she said, eyeing the offending packet in mom’s palm.

“I’m sorry,” mumbled mom hurriedly, cursing herself for leaving her purse at her desk and not being able to fling some change in the woman's face.

“You can buy something and I’ll throw the ketchup in,” the woman offered magnanimously.

“Oh, no, thanks, that’s all right,” said mom, red-facedly wondering if Winona Ryder had felt the same emotions coursing through her when she was caught shoplifting.

As she proceeded to drop the dressing back into the plastic bin, the woman seemed to soften a little and said, “I’ll let you go this time because I know you’re new here.”

Puffing up with pride and indignation and making a mental note to fire the lady as soon as she became CEO, mom refused and beat a hasty retreat toward the door.

“No, no, take it this time,” insisted the woman, thrusting the ketchup back in her hands.

"No, thank you," insisted mom, throwing the packet back in the bin.

"No, no, it's all right," insisted the woman.

"No, really," countered mom.

By now the entire company was watching mom and the hair net lady toss the invidious ketchup packet back and forth. Finally, before one of the vice presidents present stepped in to pay for the condiment and mortify her further, mom accepted the ketchup graciously and headed back to her desk, only to throw the unopened packet in the trashcan.

Thayir sadam, she concluded wolfing down her bland lunch, needs no accompaniment.

Chalti Ka Naam Mummy

Mom’s been driving home this week with a big smile on her face. No, she didn’t receive an offer to become CEO, nor was she offered a seat at the executive table. She doesn't even have assigned parking yet. But, for the first time since she’s been driving across town and adding to the daily air pollution levels, she’s made it home the last few days in a record 48.5 minutes.

It’s amazing how a small seasonal event, such as spring break, can rid the streets of all those pesky commuters and allow mom to observe vast stretches of asphalt, hitherto unexposed during rush hour, on her way home.

Weekday traffic flow on the city's major artery can be accurately gauged by mom’s entrance into the house on any given weekday:

1. A cheery “Hello!” indicates light traffic.
   
2. A heavy sigh and the bathroom door slamming indicate middling to heavy traffic.
   
3. A Shoorpanakha-like countenance, combined with a dramatic flop face-down on the bed with her shoes still on, indicates that the average speed for the last 30 miles was 7.8 miles per hour.
   

To keep her head from hitting the steering wheel in somnolence and frustration while driving, and when she’s had enough of observing the guy behind her pick his nose, mom often engages in an internal dialogue, filling her mind with metaphysical observations, such as:

• “I wonder if anybody sent me e-mail.”

• “Ugh, look at my spare tire. Why can’t I look like that blonde in finance who wears tight skirts and four-inch heels and rests her implants on the files she carries around? Oh, wait, if I were to look like her, would dad still respect me for my brilliant mind?”
  

• “I wish my entire house looked like a Pier 1 catalogue.”
  

• “Not Celine Dion again, please! Sigh, oh well, it sure beats listening to dad hum “This is Our Country” every Saturday morning.”

• “Dang! I haven’t called my aunt yet. My parents are going to be so pissed. Why do they make me call everyone who lands in the US? And I can’t believe I hanker after their approval even at this age. Will I ever grow up?”
  

• “Sure, lady, cut in front of me. Why would I mind?”

• "Why doesn’t A blog anymore? Life simply isn’t worth living.”

• "Why do I like bullet points so much?"
  

• “Oh, look at that billboard! That’s where I want to be right now - Hawa-eeee - Oh wait, do they have lizards there?”
  

• “I wonder if anybody sent me e-mail. Am I obsessing about it a little too much? Maybe we should move to a village in India with no electricity, like Shahrukh Khan did in Swades. Dad and I can sit on the veranda and count the stars.”
  

• “I wonder why it’s called a gentleman’s club when there’s nothing gentlemanly going on inside.”
  

• “Oooh, dude alert in the left lane! Holà, handsome!”
  

• “Hmmm ... if a car were a phallic symbol, what message is this trying to convey?”

Woman on Top

Mom just completed 30 days at her new job.

Congratulations are in order because in that short time frame, she has grumbled about frittering away her youth in traffic to all and sundry at least thrice a day.

“You know, you’ll never get ahead with that kind of attitude,” remarked dad one evening, after she poured out her traffic woes to him even before he walked in the door.

“You need to figure out what you want in life,” he continued, proceeding to educate her on the art of positive thinking, when all she wanted, really, was commiseration, and perhaps a warm cup of tea with cake rusk to dip.

The thing is, mom can’t even figure out what to wear each morning, let alone chart the course of her life. Even after careful consideration and deliberation, she inevitably makes poor choices at places like restaurants and ends up thinking about what she could’ve ordered instead of savoring what she just did. Or she'll play maverick at times, and pick an indie French film over a mainstream English or Hindi movie, and curse her choice the rest of the night and the next day.

Given her wishy-washy nature, it would be highly improbable if, say, mom were somehow offered the coveted position of Chairman / CEO of her company tomorrow.

I know stranger things have happened, such as my newfound popularity, but if mom were to receive such an offer, she would politely decline for the following reasons:

1. The only bottom line she’s obsessed with is her own. She diligently checks it every time she passes by a mirror.

2. She doesn’t play golf, nor does she intend to. Can power meetings be held in the kitchen while baking cupcakes?

3. The hardworking gene seems to have skipped a generation in her case. Pssst, anybody know of a way to make pot loads of money without actually doing any work?

4. She's still not sure what “strategic planning” means. As far as she’s concerned, “strategy” and “planning” essentially mean the same thing.

5. Power suits in boring black, navy blue and grey do not suit her complexion.

6. She’d rather get a Pap smear than speak in public.

7. The germophobe in her is leery of shaking hands. That explains her limp handshake and the infection she’s caught after being introduced around in her first month.

8. She lives her life by monthly cycles, not quarters.

9. This blog would probably come back to haunt her and besmirch her squeaky clean reputation.

10. She simply doesn’t want to lead a corporation. For now, the bigger picture only includes her family.