Mr. Fuzzington — Inspired by Robyn Orme

Today’s story is inspired by Robyn Orme. Robyn works at Great Lakes Christian College. Here’s her story idea…

9 year old dog. Modern American home. The child he has loved and cared for is leaving for college in another state.

Mr. Fuzzington

Okay, first of all, I hate my name. When this lame brain family adopted me my name was Marco. Mysterious, handsome, exotic Marco. But no.

“I can’t call this cute little puppy Marco,” the mother of the family said. “That name’s just too grown up for him.”

Uh. Hello. She didn’t think I was going to grow up? Now I’m the butt of all the canine jokes in the neighborhood. I can barely go outside to do my “business” without hearing the neighbors bark “Mr. Fuzzington, you sure are Fuzzy.”

Now, I know, it’s a pretty dumb rip. But you try pooping when someone’s calling you Fuzzy. You couldn’t do it, could you? Didn’t think so.

Anyway, my point is, this family is something else. I’ve lived here for 63  years. That’s 9 in human years. Why do they age slower? Couldn’t tell ya. But I do know it isn’t fair. Not at all. And they’ve been making me crazier all that time. Always patting my head, using me for a pillow, talking to me in this annoying baby voice and giving me the food off their plates. Sure, I eat it. I’m not proud of it. But they’ve got me in a corner. I’m so sick of that dry, nasty pellet junk they put in my bowl. A little steak is pretty nice once in a while. Oh, the indignity of eating table scraps.

The only one in this family that I could actually stand was Andy. Now that kid was cool. He let me sleep in his bed. He’d sneak me little pieces of food under the table. He let me hang out with his friends and told them my name was “Zing”. That’s class, I tell ya. He even let me ride his skateboard. That was one good dude.

Apparently, human children get released from the pack at a certain age. They move away. They keep calling it “college”. Sounds more like exile, if you ask me. They sent my Andy off. He’s gone.

All I do now is hang out in his room, sleeping on his bed. The sun shines in that spot all day long. The family thinks I’m depressed. I mean, I miss Andy, but it’s not destroying my life. You know what I mean?

“Oh! Mr. Fuzzington. Are you super dooper sad that Andy’s gone? Oh, poor little puppy.” They gush over me. Hugging on my neck and smashing my face into their arms.

Has no one in this family heard of personal space? I mean, come on. And that dad has got to go a little heavier on the deodorant. And they say I’m a filthy animal. Oh, and, incidentally, I’m not a puppy. Just in case you didn’t know.

“Why don’t you tell us what’s wrong, Mr. Fuzzington?”

Okay. Obviously they didn’t get the memo. I’m a dog. I can’t talk. And even if I could, I’d rather eat the mother’s tuna noodle surprise than talk to those people. And, by the way, it’s pepper. Pepper doesn’t count as a “surprise” in any recipe. It’s nothing more than evidence of a weak mind. How about you try a little dill weed or cumin. Or, here’s an idea, scrap the tuna casserole. Nobody likes it except that stupid cat that lives around here somewhere. It’s called creativity. And a good cook book. Invest in it.

“Maybe he wants to go outside.”

Uh, no. I don’t want to go outside. (See above. I hate going out there.)

“How about your squeaky toy, boy? You wanna play with that?”

I’m not kidding. If that little girl squeaks that ugly toy in my face one more time…I’m liable to snap. The only reason I chew on that thing is because I’m trying to kill it. Like, what is that thing made of? Super magic rubber or something? It won’t die.

The other day the little girl was watching a movie. There were two dogs and a cat that got left behind by their really negligent people. Well, for some dumb reason, those pets were trying to find their people. They went hundreds of miles. The girl called me to her. I obeyed. What? She had popcorn. Don’t judge. Anyway, she started crying into my neck.

“We’d never leave you like that, Mr. Fuzzington.”

Oh, little girl, if only you would. If only you would.

Ah, you know. I can’t be so hard on these people. They mean well. They’re just a tiny bit awkward. Like the way the dad wears socks and sandals. I mean, I’m a DOG, and I know that’s not right. Or how the mother burns dinner and thinks that it’s okay to give it to me. As if I really want that slop when it isn’t charcoal black. And the little girl. Always either sobbing or laughing like a crazy person. But I can’t be too mean. She’s got that Bieber Fever. It’s not looking so good for her.

Even with all that, they’re alright. I guess.

One thing I learned pretty young; life is always changing. And we don’t have a whole lot of control. Like the family that adopted me. Or the fact that they decided to “fix” me (even though it seems a lot more like being “broken” to me). I’ll get used to Andy being gone. And maybe I’ll even come to like the new nickname that the girl gave me: FuzzyBuzzyWuzzy. No. I’ll never like that.

But good things will happen for me. I’ll still get bits of peanut butter sandwiches. There’ll always be a bed for me to nap on. And I might even try and get to know the new lab chick down the street.

What? I’m fixed, not dead.