I Do Stairs Better Than Scarlett O'Hara

I do stairs better than Scarlett O'Hara.

I have much the same survival instinct as the aforementioned cinematic heroine.* We both are very demanding and use our charms to get what we want. I, Poppy, am very flirtatious.

In the movie, Miss Scarlett is always on the stairs. You could say that the stairs are the setting to so many of the dramas of her life.**

Unlike Miss Scarlett I do not hang out on stairs. This is how my dramatic expression trumps hers.

In my life, stairs are a conduit of action -- especially of downward action. What happens at the top of the stairs is more important that what happens on them. They and gravity exist only to punctuate my emotions.

You could say that the stairs in my life are like the stairs in The Red Shoes.***

For example, today I remembered that I left a chewie in the bedroom. I went up to get it. My audience was in the dining room at the bottom of the stairs and unsure as to why I went up. I made some noises to add to the suspense. At just the right moment, I appeared at the top of the stairs, my eyes wide and full of fire, and with the very large chewie in my mouth. I paused just long enough to let the potential energy of my excitement and triumph settle on the audience, and then I ran at full speed down the stairs toward them.

It got their attention. Just what I wanted.



*I call her a cinematic heroine because I have not read the book. I have only seen the movie. I do not read.

**At this very moment, my mommy is urging me to discourse on the topic of stairs as a device in Gone With the Wind. I refuse. This blog is about me.

***Miss Vicky is a match for Miss Scarlett any day in the drama department.

Mistaken Identity

On my walk this morning Mommy and I encountered a neighborhood child. There are four species of neighborhood children. There are the ones who stand on two legs, are very tall, and who know how to pet almost as well as an adult. Then there are the ones who are my size, but stand on two legs. They confuse me. They often are very enthusiastic, but must be guided in petting technique. With them, I am usually made to sit with my back to the child and Mommy holding me tight. The child then pats me very softly on the back. I do a lot of panting during this process.

Those two types of neighborhood children are much less confusing than the other two types. The others are very small. The first of this kind is usually still attached to the chest of its male parent, its forward and hind legs splayed out as if to hug an imaginary bear standing right in front of it. I am scared of this type of animal. I do not trust animals with eight legs. I hide behind Mommy when one comes toward us.

The final species of neighborhood child has wheels. Wheels disturb me. When I was a little puppy I didn't understand bikes. I used to bark at them when they drove by. I still do not like bikes. It is hard to tell when the bike ends and the human begins. I am still not convinced that this is some sort of monster.

This last neighborhood child most often has four wheels, one head, and an appendage which it uses to point. Sometimes it has eight wheels, two heads, and two pointers. The child I encountered today was like this more rare child.

As we were walking the child pointed its appendage at me. Its mommy asked it, "What kind of dog is that?" It responded, "It's a sheep."

Independence

Mommy is watching Kundun, the Martin Scorsese film based on the life of the Dalai Lama. It is about the struggles of the Tibetan people.

Pugs are Tibetan people. It is true! We first appeared in China, but then were taken to Tibet to guard the monasteries. When you go to the the East Asian floor of the art museum you can see statues of dogs with short noses and curly tales from thousands of years ago. In past posts, I have written about how the East Asian pug aesthetic translated itself into the statues of lions. The East Asians had never seen lion but had heard stories about them. So when they made representations of them, they made them look like pugs. So those statues of those flying lions that you find in Tibetan stores are really representations of enlightened pugs. It is true.

I, Poppy, am not watching Kundun. In fact, I am sleeping. In my comfortable, material life in exile I have forgotten my Tibetan brothers and sisters. In my dreams I am chasing squirrels.