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Norma to World: Fuck all y’all

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I’m Norma. You’re not. Fuck you.

This is my dog Norma. She takes no shit.

None.

We’re having a ton of work done in our house, which has been decimated by moving ground, endless cracks and the deliberate assholeness of someone who sold us the abode while somehow leaving out all the hidden damage. So our floors are being ripped, our walls are being torn, our foundation is being adjusted. It’s loud, noisy, dirty, smelly, sucky.

Norma—who does not like loud, noisy, dirty, smelly, sucky—shouldn’t be in the house. So Phil and Lisa, our kind neighbors, have allowed her to spend the day at their home, alongside the Ghost Dog. Only, well, nobody bothered to get Norma’s approval. Hence earlier today, roughly an hour after Norma was left at Phil and Lisa’s home, the wife called me into the bedroom.

“Norma’s here,” she said.

What?

“Norma’s here. She’s on the bed.”

Holy shit.

Somehow, Norma opened Phil and Lisa’s front door, got past a gate, jogged back to our house, entered through the door, navigated past the construction and construction guys, walked up the stairs and hopped onto the bed. It was a legitimate Lassie Comes Home moment … and it pissed me the fuck off. What was this dog doing to me? Didn’t she know I had to work? How dare—dammit, she’s cute and fluffy.

Fuck, I love this dog.

I placed Norma in the car, and we drove to a coffee shop.

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Alas, they didn’t take canines. So I went to my parents’ hotel in Dana Point, where dogs are allowed to stay. We were leaving for the airport in 1 1/2 hours, and Norma spent that time on the Comfort Inn bed, watching TV, finding a couple of Goldfish crackers left beneath a couch by a past guest (ew). She came with us to the airport, said farewell to her grandparents, got back in the car, returned with me to the neighborhood …

Norma with my dad
Norma with my dad

And is now with Phil and Lisa, on their couch.

Door locked.

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