The Love Life Of A Princess

By Tom Nussbaum

tiara and jewels

 

Oh, that feels good. I love how he rubs my—aahh, I’m in heaven. So good. Oh, now his hand is moving down to my tummy. Oh, he knows just how to do that. I hope he never sto—Yikes! Stop! Whoa! Don’t even think about going down there. Good. He stopped. Dear god, this is so doggone good. I just love him so much. Aahh. He’s so good to me. And now he’s got my hind paw dancing and I can’t control it. He knows just how to treat a do—

“Aaron, when are you gonna stop playing with your stupid dog and mow the lawn like I told you?”

Damn. It’s the bitch again. The one who always calls me Badog real loud even though my name is Princess.

(“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”) “I’m doing it now, Tracie.” (“Jeez, she told me to do it less than ten minutes ago.”)

I love how my Alpha doesn’t take his eyes off me when he barks at her.

“But before I go outside, Princess, I want kisses. Kisses, girl? Oh, what a good girl you are. And when I’m done, we’ll go for a walk.”

Walk? Walk? Did he say walk? I love going on walks with him. OK. There he goes. Out to the car house. To get that noisy grass eater. I can’t wait until he comes back. Maybe I’ll hide from the barking bitch under the sleeping table until he’s done. And I can take a nap and dream about when she puts on her red mouth, tall shoes, and flower water, and goes away all day. The house is so quiet then. And he sits down at the clickety-click toy until he barks “Damn computer!” at it. I guess that thing’s name is Damn Computer. And then he stops and pats my . . . back and tickles my . . . um . . . um . . . ears. And . . . and . . . oh, dear, I can’t keep my eyes op . . .

“Princess, where are you?”

Did I fall asleep? Is he done pushing the grass eater?

“Wanna go for a walk, Princess?”

Oh, my god. Oh, my god! Get to the door. Hurry! No time for kisses.

“That’s a good girl. Now let me put the leash on you.”

I don’t know why he ties me up like that. I would never run away from him. I would never leave him. I love him.

“OK, girl. Let’s go.”

We gotta stop at my pee-place first, Aaron. I really need—Oh no. we’re going in the wrong direction. What am I supposed to do? Oh, good. A flower bed.

“Princess! Not in Mr. Morgan’s garden. Those are his prize roses. And he’s not a very ni—”

“Hey, Crandall, get your damn dog away from my roses!”

“Come on, girl. Let’s go. I hope he didn’t see.”

I feel better now. So, where are we going? Huh? Huh? Where are we going?

“Wanna meet a pretty lady, Princess? She has a cocker spaniel named Bradley.”

Oh, I love cocker spaniels. They are so cute. I wonder what his butt smells like.

“We’ll be there in just a few minutes. We turn here, girl. C’mon.”

This is exciting. A new place. Not the green run-place or the hard, gray walk-place. I don’t know where we are. But I smell other dogs and I like it. This is fun. He’s taking me somewhere new. I wonder if he ever takes the mean bitch who calls me Badog here. Oh, I hope not because I love him and I want this new place to be our secret. I want—Why’s he taking off his gold round finger toy and putting it in his pants mouth?

“We’re here, Princess. Isn’t this a nice front yard? Up the steps, girl, and onto the porch.”

He’s knocking on the wood go-in place. Why doesn’t he just bark? And the go-in is opening. This is exciting. What’ll I see? Who’ll be there? Oh? Who is this bitch?

“Hi, Aaron. You’re here. And this beautiful girl must be Princess.”

Oh, I like her. Her barks are like music and she called me Princess, not Badog like the other—Hey, why are you giving my Alpha kisses? And why is he petting you? I’m like this close from growling. Don’t you know he’s mine. I love my Alph— Oh good. The kisses stopped.

“Would you like to meet my Bradley, Princess? He’s right there on—”

On the long sit thing. I see him. And he’s cute. OMD! He’s the cutest cocker spaniel I’ve ever seen. I think I could—Hey, Aaron, why the hell are you petting her again? I’m supposed to be your girl—Well, if that’s how you want it, Aaron, two can play that game. Yeah—So, Bradley, wanna smell my . . .

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