Posted by whatimeant2say
Yesterday was our annual Cookie-Baking Extravaganza with Grandma. Per tradition, the three of us (Grandma, nine-year old Dimples, and me) donned our Cookie-Baking Extravaganza aprons. Dimples insisted on wearing the one I personalized for her when she was five. It’s far too short, so I tried to hand her a slightly larger one, labeled “Little Helper.” But Wonderbutt had a different idea. He grabbed the apron himself.
Since Wonderbutt seemed so insistent on involving himself in the process, I decided to outfit him with the apron that Dimples refused to wear. Apparently, tearing around the house with it in his mouth was much more appealing to Wonderbutt than actually wearing it. Thus, my dreams were dashed of my handsome dog ever becoming a canine clothing model.
Once Wonderbutt clarified what he intended to be his role in this whole event, we set to baking, and he set to sticking right by me in case I dropped anything. It did not matter to him in the least that he was completely in the way. This was his best chance to get something yummy, and he was not going to leave the scene for a moment. Even though we were completely using up his prime napping time, he steadfastly remained, his eyelids growing heavier and heavier and his face looking more and more dejected.
Meanwhile, I could not spare much time to feel sorry for Wonderbutt, as we were trying out some new cookie recipes, and I needed to concentrate every working neuron on trying to overcome my measuring disability. In addition, Dimples had chosen a recipe to make cookies shaped like pretzels – completely oblivious to the fact that all three of us have a spatial disability, and cannot, apparently, make pretzel shapes. I like how the recipe, by Martha Stewart, simply stated, “Shape like a pretzel.” Cap’n Firepants pointed out that there was a picture of a finished pretzel shape to help me, to which I shot back that it was clearly no help at all to someone who can’t find out where she is in the middle of a mall even when she is looking straight at a directory that says, “You are here.” Things got tense in the kitchen until I finally said, “Who says pretzels have to be a specific shape? There’s stick pretzels, too.”
Besides, no one is coming to our house for Christmas, anyway.
The evening was topped by me walking into the living room where Wonderbutt was seated in the armchair, and Grandma was standing in front of the television watching The Sound of Music. Grandma had been sitting on that chair when I left the room fifteen minutes earlier. Apparently, Wonderbutt first tried to solicit an invitation onto the chair by sitting at Grandma’s feet and looking up at her determinedly with his sad eyes, but she did not understand his intention. So, he went across the room, and took a running leap onto her lap. At which point she decided to surrender the chair to him. Her comment?
“I guess dogs like him do things like that.”
And that pretty much sums up Wonderbutt.