Bushington’s Big Proposal

     I snuck out last night.  Everyone was sleeping, so I snuck out, but I didn’t go outside, I went to Roseta’s desktop on the first floor.  I would’ve gone to her laptop, but it was closed.   I started thinking about my proposal:   What should I say, what should it sound like, when should I deliver this great letter out loud?  Maybe see what the weather feels like the next few weeks; I want to make sure everything’s perfect.  I only have one shot at this and I’ve been staying up late writing.

      I snack a lot while doing this:   I want chicken breast, but I can’t find any, so I settle on the normal nibbles and some cold water.   I think about it.  We’ve had some arguments, but that’s normal with anyone.  I wonder how they’ll react.  I know how I’m going to close the letter:   Cordially, Bushington.   So, I decide to write the letter backwards.   I write those four magical words before, “Cordially, Bushington,” and keep writing backwards.    

     I write about how we’ve known each other since I was young, how we grew up together, how it was love at first sight, And write about our memories:   those great times we were at the park running around, then sitting on the bench, cuddling, kissing. I write about the times they made romantic dinners for us and us sitting around the table, talking.  I left out the bad memories, like when I left without saying a word or when I left them at the office with the children all by themselves.   I hope they’ll forget those things for a few minutes.  

     I imagine the life we’ll have if they accept my proposal:   Us living together as equal partners; romantic chicken breast dinners with spaghetti, meatballs, tomato sauce, sweet potatoes, and fresh gravy to drink.  Dull lights.   How nice that’ll be, if they accept my proposal.  

     I also enjoy our car rides:   Us kissing at red lights, me protecting them in bed late at night.   I go over in my mind what I’ll do if they say yes and what to say if they say no.  

     I’ve been told by my friends/colleagues to read the letter out loud before I send it or read it to them, so there’s no typos.  The computer has a program called, “Read Please,” where I hit a button and the computer reads what I’ve typed out loud.   Then, I can hear and correct mistakes.   I’ve finished the letter, so I hit control A, control C, I open Readplease, and hit control V. 

     So, here’s what my letter sounds like out loud:

Dear McCormicks:

      I’ve been good.  I’ve played with the kids at Daddy’s office, I’ve protected the home from burglars, I helped Bob in the attic even when it smelled, and I’ve cleaned the floor when you dropped food.   But now, as you’ve noticed, I’ve been escaping.  I got out of my collar at your office, I’ve requested college applications, credit cards, asked for loans, and what you keep wanting to know is why.   Why leave?  You feed me, play with me, take me to the vet, love me, give me a flea pill every month, bathe me, brush my teeth, clip my nails, etc.   So, why would I wanna run away?   What would I do with a college diploma or a credit card?   Well, what I want is what every other normal dog wants:   I want to have my own wife and not just cute dogs at the dog park for fifteen minutes.   I want to own my own home and decide when and where to go instead of being told I need to stay with my owner(s).  I want to be able to take a girl dog to my own home and date her, have a courtship, and have my own pups, like any normal dog.  I want to go to a place where I have the same rights as the rest of my family and where I won’t be punished for using my PDA, or be put in a kennel while you all go on vacation.   I want to be treated like the rest of the family, instead of being told I’m just a dog.  I want to be on my own.   So, I’m going to try again tomorrow.  

Cordially,

Bushington 

     I liked how it sounded, so I went back to Word Pad on the laptop and pushed control P, pushed enter, and it printed.  I know people sign their name to letters, but I don’t have a thumb.   But I take the letter with my teeth and place it near the dining room table. 

*

    The next morning, the family gets up, walks me, and Bob finds my letter.   He sighs and says, “Really, Bushington?   Not again,” and gives the letter to Daddy.   Daddy reads it, rolls his eyes, and says it’s time for another family meeting, but this time they don’t include me in the meeting, but put me in a cage in Mommy and Daddy’s room with a towel on the bottom.  I hate cages.   

     I’m hungry and thirsty, but thank God I was walked.   I dig into the towel to escape, but it doesn’t work. So I wait half-an-hour before Daddy takes me out of the cage and brings me downstairs.   I recognize the formation on the couch:   Family meeting time.  So, I take my seat on the couch, but Joey puts me back on the floor.  

      Daddy tells me I am a member of the family, but I am still just the dog.   He said I’m allowed to stay in their home, but can’t own my own home.   He said I can’t  have a wife and children since I’m fixed, which they thought would stop me from running away. And reminded me, if it wasn’t for them, I’d still be at the no-kill shelter and might have been transferred to the pound and to remember how lucky I am to have this home.  

     After fifteen minutes, I stopped listening and remembered what Stephen Covey said:   Keep the end in mind.   Imagine what people would say about me after I leave.  Bushington was a loving husband, a great father, a provider, and was smart, or he gave in and decided to remain just a dog.   I’m calling the vet tomorrow to get unfixed.   They’ll see.  It’ll work.