"Here's Hitler," my friend Amy says holding her hand level about eye height before lower it a couple inches. "And here you are, right here."
"I'm below Hitler?" I say incredulously.
"Yes," she replies emphatically. "You are worse than Hitler."
I sigh. I want to insist on my overall kindheartedness, tell her about all the good I do in my world. How sometimes I feel like an overly eager flower girl, flinging rose petals of love and good will to all my friends with wild abandon. But I know in this case, with Amy still holder her "below Hitler" hand in the air, it's no use.
Because she's right, of course.
But then again, she hasn't been stalked nonstop by an OCD pug for the last eight years. She doesn't live every waking hour under the relentless claustrophobia of my dog's laser beam, bug-eyed gaze. Amy doesn't know what it's like to be watched, watched, WATCHED when she's getting dressed, eating lunch, answering the phone, checking her Facebook page, getting the mail, fixing a snack, paying the bills, planting some peas, feeding the chickens, tucking in the children, reading a book, listening to music, packing a lunch, putting on shoes, going to the bathroom, brushing her teeth. She has no idea what it feels like to be stalked by an obsessive, farting dog day in and day out without one friggin' minute of release from his disproportionately needy stranglehold.
She just thinks I'm a bad person because I look forward to his death. Ohmygod, you guys! I KNOW that's horrible! I feel terrible about it! Last month when I went out to town, my husband told me that the dog had a seizure (it happens sometimes,) and I couldn't help myself from saying with a tiny ray of hope, "But he's still alive?"
"Yeah," my husband said, and after a beat adds, "Sorry." He knows. He sees it day in and day out. He doesn't think I'm worse than Hitler.
(BTW, sorry for calling you a bastard in my blog yesterday, honey. Love you!!!)