The following evening I had dinner with Elizabeth, who had heard me recount tales of Shiny Penny, the basenji that lived with me for a short time [longer actually than the lover who brought the dog, but, as I've already said, that's a story for a different post]. The lover must have come up in dinner conversation, for I said, "You know, there's a basenji puppy over at the Petland next to Publix."
"Oh, let's go see!" cried Elizabeth, who couldn't picture the breed despite my careful descriptions, and so we made the drive after the meal.
As a teenager, I worked one summer for a McDonald's, where I was trained in the art of suggestive selling—"Would you like fries with that?"—so when Elizabeth and I walked into the Petland and Molly the salesgirl asked if we would like to hold the puppy, I sternly said, "No!" Elizabeth, however, immediately chimed, "Oh, yes, bring her out!" and the next thing I knew we were in a puppy-meeting cubicle with a little demon from hell. This puppy was an aggressive biter who nearly chewed off my watch band and drew blood several times. I kept motioning to Molly to take away the hell spawn, but she ignored us, hoping that we would be won over.
Eventually, Molly retrieved the puppy—"She's a feisty one!" she explained—and then in more hushed tones said, "There's another one in the back. I'm not supposed to let anyone see her because she hasn't been checked by the vet, but, if you want, I can bring her out."
"Oh, do!" cried Elizabeth, and a few moments later, I was holding the first black and white basenji I had ever seen. In temperament, this puppy was the complete opposite of the red and white, a warm little cuddly thing that couldn't possibly chew holes in upholstery, and even though I knew Molly had manipulated me, I wanted this dog. But I wasn't going to house train alone. Elizabeth had recently put down her old beagle, Eyeball, so I asked Molly if she had by chance a beagle puppy we could see. In a flash, Elizabeth had a warm little hound in her own arms.
We ended up buying both dogs that evening. Yo-Yo is worth every dollar that puppy-mill peddler overcharged me, and Elizabeth feels the same way about the Banana. But once we left the store, we realized the full extent of the nightmare we had entered. Yo-Yo began shrieking as soon as I started the car engine [basenjis might not bark but that doesn't mean they are silent], and then had explosive diarrhea in the crate. I invited Elizabeth to spend the first day at my house because I had hardwood floors, which Yo-Yo and the Banana christened repeatedly with urine. The next day the Banana got left alone at Elizabeth's condo, where she defecated on the bathroom floor, stepped in the feces, and then smeared them all over the walls, the vanity, and the toilet as she tried to claw her way out of the room.
"This is all your fault," accused Elizabeth.
"My fault? I'm not the one who said, 'Oh, yes! Bring her out!' to that salesgirl. I just wanted to show you what a basenji looked like. They know that once you get that warm puppy in your arms, they're going to be able to sell it!"
"Yes, but you're the one who found the dog in the first place!"
"But you're the one who wanted to go see her!"
"It's still all your fault."
"You can think whatever you want to, but God has videotape, and in it, you are the one to blame." And so an argument-ending sentence was born.
