Let me tell you about my Ladies in Waiting. One of them is an older girl, a ball of golden fluff and toothless wonder. The other is a curious rolly polly of pup, who at 30 lbs. swears to be of a teacup breed. These are my dogs, my 6 year old Boston Terrier and 8 year old tiny Pekingese.
These older dames have perfected a synchronized dance which involves doing clumsy pirouettes around my legs as I walk to the kitchen. They know the route, the choreography and the fact that I give in to their awful snacking habits. They sit at my feet patiently as a struggle with a glass jar, hoping, waiting for some of that trapped ambrosia to fall at their feet. All I can think of yelling is, "No! You do not eat cornichons!"
But they don't care. Not until they have performed their sniff and lick taste test to see whether the tidbit is satisfactory and agreeable to their palate will they let me and my jar be.
They know I am the weak link of this herd. My husband never gives in as easily. They'll try to seduce him with their dance, a tiny arthritic dog tripping on her own locks, and a robust happy dog, tripping over the arthritic dancer. But he doesn't give in. He knows about the Lorelei.
Their tactics are getting more advanced. They have learned to nudge doors open. First the big one pushes, then the little one comes in. Stage curtain comes up, the performers enter, and the show begins! But their 8 AM weekend matinées are not my idea of Broadway. I need my sleep, not the tap tap tapping of their dance.
Once again I fall victim to their performance. In a half asleep stupor, I get up. They dance the Midsummer's Ballet around my feet, a petite fairy with flowing hair and a voluptous princess with twinkling eyes. I stand in front of the fridge, the magical treasure box, and say, "Cheese?" to which they respond in some sort of contemporary dance. With a tired sigh I cut them each a piece and watch them chew with such passion and happiness I would have felt guilty not giving in.
I make my way back to the bedroom, eight little feet follow me, content. I pat them on their round heads and they lie on their beds. I crawl into mine and soon I am dreaming of the next performance.
