The Real Dog

The Real Dog

Cottonwood Glen is a rather fancy place. Fancy houses, fancy cars that
go too fast, and most importantly, fancy dogs. If you took a stroll
through Cottonwood Glen, you'd probably figure that some pretty
important people live in those big houses. The problem with important
people is that their dogs think they're important, too. They hold their
noses in the air, and demand that their dog food be served on fine,
crystal dinnerware. These dogs have weekly manicures and trips to the
groomers, where they are trimmed and perfumed and generally made to
look stupid. But this is the kind of thing that happens in a place like
Cottonwood Glen.
The swimming pools sparkle in the sun, and the manicured lawns stay
green all year round. Japanese maple trees dot the landscape, and
fragrant gardens fill the neighborhood with the scent of lilac and
hibiscus. Digby, the only mixed breed dog in the neighborhood, is
basking in the sun on the porch of his fancy doghouse, deciding what to
do while Emily, his owner, is off at work. Digby dangles a paw off the
porch and leisurely lifts his nose to take in the fragrant breeze of
this lovely day.
But Digby misses the big city. Especially the good smells coming from
street vendors' carts that Digby likes to frequent; hot dogs, pop corn,
pretzels, and ice cream fill his days in the city with joy. Every
morning he walks his owner, Emily, to work through the bustling
downtown with its tall buildings and people scurrying around like ants.
Emily always stops at Mr. O'Leary's bakery on the way to work for a cup
of coffee, and Mr. O'Leary always has a freshly-baked treat set aside
for Digby. The glorious smells of the bakery put Digby in his element
every single day.
In addition to all of the tasty treats the big city has to offer, Digby
feels like he belongs. No one bothers him about the fact that he has
only one eye because the other one had to be removed after an incident
with a cat. No one bothers him about being rescued from the pound by
Emily. The big city is home to so many different kinds of people and
different kinds of dogs that it's easy to make friends; it's easy to be
different.
When Emily told Digby that they would be spending the summer
house-sitting for her friends in Cottonwood Glen, Digby's ears really
perked up. Actually, Digby could hardly wait. It would be like a
vacation with miles of luscious green grass, tall trees towering over
everything, plump, juicy squirrels to chase, not to mention all of the
new smells he would get to explore. Oooooooooh, the smells. Indeed,
Cottonwood Glen would be a dog's dream come true.
"Whatta joke," Digby growls to himself as he hops off the doghouse
porch into the yard. The owners of the home planted daffodils all
around his doghouse, and for several days Digby has been busy chomping
on the yellow flowers and digging up the bulbs.
After his daily dig, Digby trots down the street, holding his head up
high and wagging his tail. Of course it hurts him that the other dogs
in the neighborhood aren't nice to him, but he's determined to stand
his ground. He's a city dog, lean and mean, and he certainly doesn't
need any of the Cottonwood Glen dogs to tell him how to feel about
himself. Digby knows he's going to have to run twice as fast, bury
twice as many bones, and pee on twice as many fire hydrants as the
Cottonwood Glen dogs if he wants them to leave him alone. As Digby sets
off on his walk, he thinks of his friends in the city. They certainly
don't have bones for brains like the dogs around here.
"Whatta ya think you are, some kind of show dog? Ya stinkin' mutt!"
yaps the Bichon Frise as Digby trots across her yard. Of course Digby
dislikes the Bichon - the fuzzy little ball of fluff that's only a dog
because the dictionary says so. He has to be careful not to sneeze in
her yard, as he might blow her away.
But Digby keeps his comments to himself as he struts down the sidewalk,
toenails clicking against the pavement. He has to stifle a laugh as he
realizes how utterly ridiculous the Bichon looks today. She is sporting
big, pink bows on her ears and a pink sweater with little white paw
prints on it. "What kind of a real dog wears a sweater?" Digby chuckles
to himself.
Digby trots along down the fancy block with its fancy houses and fancy
cars in the driveways. As he turns the corner onto the next block,
Giles and Posh, the Great Danes, come romping down their circular
driveway towards Digby. "Hey bone-breath, have you been reading Harry
the Dirty Dog again?" Posh sneers.
"Yeah, ya mutt, you look like you stink!" Giles snarls, licking his
jowls.
Digby picks up the pace a little bit, anxious to be out of the Great
Danes' territory. Once again, he has to conceal his laughter- the
tailless dogs are wearing spiked collars, like they're part of some
'way cool' rock band.
Digby is rolling with laughter as he approaches his own yard. He's
still giggling as he enters his doghouse, thinking of how silly the
Cottonwood Glen dogs are, and more importantly, how little they mean to
him. In fact, he would rather be a cat than a Cottonwood Glen dog. This
he is sure of. The bed he has made out of a pile of newspaper scraps
rustles and crinkles as he curls up, settling down for his afternoon
nap. He falls fast asleep, legs twitching as he dreams of chasing after
cats and actually catching them.