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Every time he invited me over, we’d open the door and there would be that ankle-biting dog barking it’s head off. If she was human, I’d say she was screaming bloody murder, but she’s a dog, and "barking bloody murder" doesn’t sound right. Besides, she doesn’t really bark. She yaps.

She’s one of those dogs that yaps at everything. We’d always hear her, even before we’d get inside the door. It’s the kind of bark that makes you want to drop-kick her across the room.
Her bark reminds me of Dino from the Flintstones. It’s a contrived bark, and it’s annoying as Hell. It’s a bark that doesn’t quite sound like a dog.

Her name is Daisy, but she doesn’t connote any of those images of happiness and simplicity a daisy creates. I think any notions of happiness would be too annoyed with her bark to stick around, anyway.

She’s a Chihuahua, which makes her look like a fat tan dachshund with big ears. She’s no longer than eighteen inches, but I think she thinks of herself as a Doberman protecting her territory. She growls at passing traffic, snaps at an outstretched hand and yaps at a stranger’s voice.

“Don’t talk until she sniffs you,” he’d always say. “Let her get acquainted with you.” Wondering what the appropriate waiting time was for Daisy to get acquainted with someone, I’d get tired of the conversation being stifled and would eventually whisper something to him. Daisy would then immediately start yapping with all the fierceness an eighteen inch Chihuahua could muster up. The conversation would be halted for another five minutes until she was finished with her canine tantrum.

Suddenly I thought of my sister. She always had to have her way, too. And my sister’s voice is almost as annoying as that damn yapping noise.

But this time while I was over he told me said he had to run to the store, so he asked me to stay and "keep Daisy company." As I stood in the window and watched his fire-engine red Hyundai Scoupe drive him away, Daisy jumped on the back of the couch, poised toward the window. She yapped bloody murder.

I sat down in a chair. Daisy sat in the adjacent couch, probably choosing her seat so she’d have a view of the passing traffic she could yap at if she so chose. She stretched out on the couch like a queen, amongst pillows that were bigger than her bed. I thought of my sister again.

She then turned her eyes toward me and squinted, as if to say, “ha ha, bitch, I’ve got the couch and you have to sit in a chair.”

She put her head down and closed her eyes. I couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to be her -- to have a couch as big as the living room to crawl on to, to have nothing to worry about but the passing traffic.

A car turned down the street and started driving toward the house. Daisy picked her head up, looked out the window and started to growl. I attempted to show an ounce of authority to the dog: “Day-zeee,” I said, as if I were actually about to reprimand the thing. She stopped growling and turned her head half way toward me, pausing just for a moment before she turned back and continued to growl at the Buick.

I couldn’t see her face, but I’m sure it had a look on it that said, “You bitch, how dare you yell at me... Who are you anyway??”

She couldn’t even bother to turn her head around entirely to look at me.

I just sat there, looking at Queen Daisy in all her glory. I sat back in the chair and tried to relax. I twisted the ring on my finger. I looked out the window and waited for him to come home.

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