Be phenomenal or be forgotten.

It is late afternoon. Seated at my desk, I call for my dogs to join me in my office. They do.

Me: The reason I’ve summoned you here today is I really think we should talk about something. Bob: What’s that? Me: Well, please don’t take this the wrong way, but I get the feeling you guys think you have to follow me everywhere and I just want you both to know that you don’t. Stan: Where would you get a feeling like that? Me: I get it from the fact that the both of you follow me everywhere all day long. Like for instance, this morning. We were all together in the bedroom? Why do you both look blank? Doesn’t this ring a bell at all? I was on the bed reading the paper… Bob: Where was I? Me: On the floor sleeping. Bob: On the floor sleepi…? Oh, yes. Right. I remember that. Go on. Me: So, there came a point where I had to get up and go into the next room to get a Kleenex. And you both woke up out of a deep sleep to go with me. Stan: Yes. So? What’s the problem? Bob: We like to watch you get Kleenex. We happen to think it’s something you do very well. Me: The point I’m trying to make is why do you both have to get up out of a deep sleep to go with me. You sit there staring at me, all excited, like you think something really good is going to happen. I feel a lot of pressure to be more entertaining. Bob: Would it help if we stood? Stan: I think what the lady is saying is that where Kleenex retrieval is concerned, she’d just as soon we not make the trip. Bob: Is that true? Me: Yes. It is. Bob (deeply hurt): Oh, man. Stan: Don’t let her get to you, buddy. Bob: I know I shouldn’t. But it all comes as such a shock. Me: I think you may be taking this wrong. It’s not that I don’t like your company. It’s just that I see no reason for you both to follow me every time I get up. Bob: What if just one of us goes? Stan: And I don’t suppose that “one of us” would be you? Me: Neither of you needs to go. Bob: Okay. Fine. No problem. Get your damn Kleenex alone from now on. Me: Good. Bob: I’m just curious. What’s your position on pens? Me: Pens? Bob: Yes. How many of us can wake up out of a deep sleep to watch you look for a pen? Me: Why would either of you want to wake up out of a deep sleep to follow me around while I’m looking for a pen? Stan: Is she serious? Bob: I can’t tell. She has such a weird sense of humor. Me: Let’s just level with each other, okay? The real reason you both follow me every place I go is that you secretly believe there might be food involved. Isn’t that true? Isn’t that the real reason for the show of enthusiasm? Stan: Very nice talk. Bob: The woman has got some mouth on her. Me: You mean you deny that every time you follow me out of the room it’s actually because you think we’re stopping for snacks? Bob: Absolutely false. That is a bald-faced lie. We do it for the life experience. Period. Stan: And sometimes I think it might work into a game of ball. Bob: But we certainly don’t expect anything. Stan: We’re way past expecting anything of you. We wouldn’t want you to overexert yourself in any way. You have to rest and save up all your strength for all that Kleenex fetching. Bob: Plus we know it doesn’t concern you in the least that we’re both starving to death. Stan: We consume on the average about a third of the calories eaten daily by the typical wasted South American street dog. Me: One bowl of food a day is what the vet said I should give you. No more. Bob: One bowl of food is a joke. It’s an hors d’oeuvre. It does nothing but whet my appetite. Me: Last summer, before I cut your food down, you were the size and shape of a hassock. Bob: Who is she talking to? Stan: You, pal. You looked like a beanbag chair, buddy. Bob: But it was not from overeating. In summer, I retain fluids, that’s all. I was in very good shape. Stan: For a hippo. I saw you play ball back then. Nice energy. For a dead guy. Bob: Don’t talk to me about energy. Who single-handedly ate his way through the back fence? Not just once but on four separate occasions? Me: So you’re the one who did that? Bob: One who did what? Me: Ate through the back fence. Bob: Is there something wrong with the back fence? I have no idea what happened. Whoever said that is a liar. Stan: The fact remains that we are starving all day long and you continually torture us by eating right in front of us. Bob: Very nice manners, by the way. Me: You have the nerve to discuss my manners? Who drinks out of the toilet and then comes up and kisses me on the face? Bob: That would be Dave. Me: No. That would be you. And while we’re on the subject of manners, who keeps trying to crawl into the refrigerator? Who always has mud on their tongue? Stan: Well, that would be Dave. Me: Okay. That would be Dave. But the point I’m trying to make is that where manners are concerned, let’s just say that you don’t catch me trying to stick my head in your dinner. Bob: Well, that may be more a function of menu than anything else. Me: Which brings me right back to my original point. The two of you do not have to wake up and offer me fake camaraderie now that you understand that once a day is all you’re ever going to be fed. Period. Non-negotiable. For the rest of your natural lives. And if I want to play ball, I’ll say so. End of sentence. Stan: Well, I see that the nature of these talks has completely broken down. Bob: I gotta tell you, it hurts. Me: There’s no reason to have hurt feelings. Stan: Fine. Whatever you say. Bob: I just don’t give a damn anymore. I’m beyond that, quite frankly. Get your own Kleenex, for all I care. Stan: I feel the same way. Let her go get all the Kleenex and pens she wants. I couldn’t care less. Me: Excellent. Well, I hope we understand each other now. Bob: We do. Why’d you get up? Where are you going? Me: Into the next room. Stan: Oh. Mm hmm. I see. And why is that? Me: To get my purse. Stan: Hey, fatso, out of my way. Bob: Watch out, asshole. I was first. Stan: The hell you were. I was first. Bob: Fuck you. We’re getting her purse, I go first. I’m starving. Stan: You don’t listen at all, do you. Going for pens means food. She said she’s getting her purse. That means ball.