All Hail the VIP (Very Important Pet)

“It had to happen,” thought mom wryly.

Such is her luck that not one, but both her friends who watched me whenever the humans went on vacation, relocated. Both families packed their bags, sold their homes and left the country, forever.

“We should also move to India,” said mom to dad, envisioning a charmed NRI life in a luxury apartment with a cook, a nanny, a maid and a chauffer at her beck and call. However, images of slithering, beady-eyed lizards and inadequate indoor plumbing filled her mind in the next instant, and she quickly recanted her statement.

“We can always go for a visit,” suggested dad.

As the children yelled in glee, mom, the party pooper, asked, “And where would we leave Terri?”

At $20 a night, kennels are an expensive option. Besides, the last time I stayed in one, I came home with diarrhea.

Mom pointed to the once-yellow-now-black-with-age spots on the carpet after my last visit, and reminded dad about my explosive anal ejaculations that lasted four days. (And not one to let an opportunity slide by, mom also brought up the fact that the carpets REALLY needed replacing. And while they were at it, perhaps they could gut the kitchen and completely remodel it, as well. And, maybe, add another room in the back, and turn the patio into a sunroom. And would dad like to hear about her plans for the backyard….?)

“Anyway, I can’t leave my Terri in a cage for three weeks, even if they watch him for free,” said mom, kissing the tip of my nose.

She presumes that since she wouldn’t like to spend time in a cage, I wouldn’t like to, either. Somehow, the same reasoning doesn’t apply to furniture or pizza. I’ve been sternly told that the couches are off limits, and only constant whining and staring will score me a measly slice of pizza.

Mom is now on the lookout for a local ‘nutcase’ like her to trade dog-sitting duties. A like-minded individual who doggedly ignores barbs from petless people, such as:

“Your priorities are screwed up, you know?”
“You should have thought of this before you brought the dog home.”
“You’re nicer to that dog than you are to me.”
“What? You’re leaving the party early because your dog’s alone at home?”
“Please! He’s a dog; treat him like one!”

Know what I mean?

From the Mouth of Babes

Mom: “Kuki-pie, you should start sleeping in your own room now.”

Kuki: “No.”

Mom: “See, you’re three years old. You’re a big girl, right? Look at Anu; he sleeps all by himself.”

Kuki: “What about Sydney? Does she sleep by self?”

Mom: “Yes, she sleeps all by herself. Not with her mommy and daddy.”

Kuki: “Um ... Zion?”

Mom: “Yes.”

Kuki: “Chloe?”

Mom: “Yes.”

Kuki: “Kyle?”

Mom: “Yes.”

Kuki: “Bethany?”

Mom: “Yes.”

Kuki: “Pramath?”

Mom: “Yes! All the kids in your class, in fact, everybody you know, sleeps alone; in their own rooms.”

Kuki: “But, why you still sleep with daddy?”

Forty Winks

It’s that time of the afternoon when your eyelids begin to close involuntarily and you resist stupor with every fiber of your being, not because you want to but because you have to.

Of course, you’ve tried everything. You’ve pushed lunch back by an hour; you steer clear of curd rice; you blink very rapidly; you call your brother to gossip; you check the Web; you stand up and stretch; you take restroom breaks; heck, you even sit on the toilet and lay your head on your knees. You’re so desperate, you’ll do anything to stop your face from crashing onto the keyboard.

The dark space under your desk looks mighty inviting. You can reposition some of those computer cables, spread a charpoy and curl yourself into a fetal position. Hell, if they allowed you, you’d happily drool on those useless reports and cookie crumbs that litter your desk.

Instead, you suppress yawn after yawn and watch the clock, willing it to move faster, so you can go home, get a good night’s rest and go through the same motions the next day.

God Save the Plebeians

Princess Royal Kuki, supreme sovereign of our hearts, was thrilled to receive the personalized invite, hand-delivered to befit her regal status.

“Come to my princess tea party to celebrate my 4th birthday,” the crown-shaped foam card from a fellow princess read. The pink invitation was accorded pride of place next to Ballerina Barbie and Baby doll and examined daily by her royal highness.

The day of the magical tea party dawned, and her eminence rummaged in her closet for a gown to wear. After rejecting a half-dozen frilly party frocks with satin rosebuds and silken bows, she settled on a pair of frayed, faded jeans two sizes too small to be considered capris.

The royal queen and queen mother collectively clutched their hearts and gasped. “Surely, child, you’re not going to wear that to the party?” they exclaimed. “What about your beautiful ball gown with lacy ruffles and silver sparkles? That’s what our very own Cinderella wore to her first ball.”

The pint-sized princess proceeded to throw a royal tantrum, complete with Jumping Jacks and dramatic shrieks and collapsed in a sobbing heap on her pink bed.

The king, awoken from a slumber, gently suggested that the royal offspring be allowed to wear whatever she wanted. A withering look from his consort silenced him, and the king retired to attend to important matters of the state, such as checking the status of the duel between the warring Cardinals and the Patriots.

After close to an hour of negotiations, entreaties, recriminations, threats, tears and promises of unlimited cherry-flavored Popsicle, a chastened, red-eyed princess allowed herself to be dressed in a wispy, Pepto-Bismol-colored gown, sure to draw the envy of her peers at the tea party.

As the queen and queen mother hovered anxiously over her, the princess ordered her nails be painted a mixed hue of pink and silver to complement her outfit. She pointed to her mother’s maquillage and demanded the same shade of lipstick and blush on her cheeks.

Crystal beads from the far corners of Asia graced her neck, and silver bracelets adorned her petal-soft arms. Her majesty’s sweeping ringlets were teased and tied back, and a pink tiara, matching her outfit, was pinned to her hair.

An hour of primping, fluffing, preening, spiffing and cajoling later, the women stood back admiringly and declared that the fair child was the prettiest princess they had ever seen.

The Princess Royal twirled in front of the mirror a final time, collected her pink purse from a waiting knave and emerged from the dressing room to the sound of coos and excited calls.

Waiting paparazzo at the foot of the stairs went into overdrive and camera lights flashed to record her grace’s every move.

The pretty princess floated toward the garage door, where her carriage awaited. She paused in front of the shoe rack and surveyed her assorted collection of pink pumps, silver heels, Mary Janes, patent party shoes and Dora the Explorer athletic sneakers.

With a defiant glance at the assembled adults and a contemptuous flick of her mane, she proceeded to slide her dainty feet into a pair of Finding Nemo flip-flops that the royal canine regularly used as a gum cleanser.

Her Royal Highness was now officially ready for her social engagement.

Reality Checked

Mom’s been in a dream world the last few days.

It doesn’t take much for her mind to start meandering, and ever since she watched Hyderabad Blues-2 over the weekend, she’s been humming and smiling to herself.

No, she’s not dreaming of Nagesh Kukunoor, thank goodness. It’s that haunting Mora Saiyyan song in the movie that she’s fallen in love with.

Mom has now replayed it on our PC at least 186 times.

“It’s so slow,” complains Anu, rolling his eyes. “Can’t we listen to Dhoom Machale, instead?”

“You should play something devotional, like Vishnu Sahasranamam,” suggests grandma. “Fill the house with good vibes.”

Their pleas fall on deaf ears.

Mom flits around the house with glazed eyes, imagining herself as the ingénue in the music video. She pictures herself as a misty-eyed maiden draped in billowy silk and organza dupattas, running across the rain-drenched courtyard of her palatial, yet empty haveli.

She tucks away the loose tendrils of hair around her face and her kohl-rimmed eyes anxiously scan the horizon for her prince, who’s actually a poet at heart, to arrive on a white horse and whisk her away to an undisclosed location.

Clutching sheets of love poetry in her hand, she watches the steady downpour outside her window and imagines her prince riding his Arabian steed. White dupatta trailing behind her, she walks through the candlelit haveli and throws open random doors only to find dusty, slip-covered furniture inside. She lies back on an antique bed framed by white sheers, quivering in anticipation and ardor like the red rosebud she clasps to her bosom.

As the guitar strums in the background, startled white doves fluttering in the courtyard hearken her prince’s arrival. A sudden gust of wind scatters his missives to the floor, and as she bends down to retrieve the sheets, a shrill voice from the bathroom shatters the soft strains of the melody and calls out to her....

“Ammmaaaaaa? I’m done. Can you come and wipe me?"