A Clown with a Frown

He left with just a short cuddle and without ample warning. I could sense he was leaving me there even before we arrived at the destination. It’s not fair. Why didn’t he take me with him? Instead, he hurried out of his old bomb, a hailstone-riddled navy blue CRV which blew black smoke like a chimney in urgent need of a sweep, and impatiently waited for someone to turn up at the meeting place.

“C’mon, get out of the car,” he said in a voice less sweet than usual.

He cursed the time under his breath but I refused to oblige him, despite knowing he was late for something.

“Will you please hurry, Murray?” he asked, still politely.

I refused to budge to his command and merely looked at him dolefully with my big brown eyes.

He will fall for it, as usual. I can manipulate him with my eyes.

But, I was wrong that time. He didn’t even look at me as he dragged me off the lap of the front passenger, his Mrs. She gave me a quick cuddle before letting me go.

He’s not cold, just in a rush.

I continued to defend his character despite what he was doing to me. He didn’t care about my feelings. He dragged me out like I was a disobedient child. They teach kids as young as five or seven in school about their human rights. The other day, I overhead a neighbour telling him a high-powered Malaysian migrant was returning to KL with his family because his kids are rebelling at home about their rights. “Dad, you can’t tell me I’m a boy! I am now a girl!” the five-year-old screamed. The Malaysian migrant, a six handicap golfer, was unaffected by all things foreign to him in his new country – to him, a group of rowdy drunken aboriginals roaming Gilbert Street in the city were just being friendly, not at all devaluing his property there like someone suggested – but the recent wave of American woke culture to reach Aussie shores frightened the bejesus out of him and his wife. As far as he was concerned, it was not always right to talk about human rights. He wanted his kids to be right about being better humans than be humans with better rights.

What about my rights? They make me go where they want me to go. They make me stay from where they don’t want me to go. Sometimes, they use me as their fall guy, blaming me for things when they go wrong.

“Where are my slippers, Murray?”

“Did you dirty the floor again, Murray?”

They even suspected without evidence, albeit briefly, that it was I who broke the chooks’ eggs. No way! I don’t like eggs that much anyway.

“It’s the thievin’ magpies,” I suggested but no one listened.

They trample on my rights. Do they not know I am a dog and dogs have rights too? Do I get to say what hairstyle I want? Nope. They just go their merry way and cut it, shoddily. Unevenly. Sometimes, even crookedly. No use complaining, most times they don’t even give me treats for sitting obediently as they mess up my cute looks.

Yiyi, the auntie next door, asked me to make them take me to a professional groomer.

“You’ll look cute and adorable,” she said.

She could not understand. Sometimes, I think humans, as caring as they are, simply do not get it. I hate the sight of scissors. I distrust anyone with one. You would to, if your balls were snipped off with scissors before they even had a chance to descend.

“It is for your own good,” someone falsely assured me. That someone still has his balls. I don’t. The world is full of cons. I bit the hand of the last professional groomer. She was a con too. The careless bitch cut my belly with her scissors instead of my hair.

“Sit. SIT. Stay, Murray. Staaaayyy.” Nah. I showed her my teeth and she thought a tiny piece of beef jerky would buy my obedience. She was so wrong. The professional groomer wasn’t very professional when she quit in protest, howling like a lost child, showing her bloodied finger to a colleague.

Still wishing that he would let me lead him to a park instead, I froze in the carpark when I saw the other guy come out of the building. I tried to jump back into the blue CRV, but he almost suffocated me with the tight leash.

“Staayyyy, Murray,” he commanded.

The other guy was his eldest son. Over six foot tall, he kept his hair short, too short for my liking. I like my hair long, but he cuts them whenever he feels like it. I want my rights! He liked to think he was fashionable but his wardrobe only hung black Uniqlo clothes. He reckoned that was smart of him to save time each morning. Choosing what to wear was a waste of time to him. I suggested he ought to have the same can of food for every meal. Why choose your groceries and spend time looking for new recipes, right? He simply ignored me. He had begun to do that a lot; I guess he had no answers to my intelligent questions.

Oh no. He’s going to leave me here with his son. So, I tried to scamper away from him. The leash tightened and choked me to a standstill.

Show him some love. So, I turned around and greeted him like I had not seen him for an eternity. His mouth broke out into a beaming smile and was visibly pleased.

Show him some excitement. So, I jumped up on his lap and nuzzled up against his face. He hugged me tightly and said he loved me. So adorable, ain’t he.

The truth be told, I disliked staying at his son’s apartment, not because I disliked him, on the contrary, how can I not like my master? I just prefer a place with a garden that’s adjoining a big garden next door. A place that I can roam to my heart’s content. Besides, Yiyi, when she’s around, keeps a stack of goodies, to buy my attention and my love for her. It was remarkably easy to please her. I suppose that is what men do too with their women. All I had to do was greet Yiyi in the mornings like I had not seen her for an eternity and smother her with wet kisses and licks, jump up on her lap and cuddle her like a lover. A new trick I learned was to lean my head on her breasts and look into her eyes. Such private moments never failed to melt her heart.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said to me, as he heavily sat back into the front seat of his bomb.

“You’ll see, before you miss me, I’ll be back bearing gifts,” he added.

“Before you know it, you two will be sleeping cheek to cheek again,” his Mrs said sourly.

He was flying out to Penang the next morning. Penang. It sounds foreign. I have never been there. Why won’t my pal bring me along? He had told me the food there was the best, a street food paradise, no less. He had bragged about about the golden sands on the idyllic beaches, the coconuts and durians. He knew I loved durian! Yet, he went on his own. He knew I would be sad but that’s a dog’s life, he explained. He was there to attend his book launch and to enjoy a family gathering to celebrate his nephew’s marriage.

As I stood under the portico and watched his car leave, he wound down his window and punched his puny arm in the air to wave goodbye.

The blue CRV coughed up a billow of smoke and fouled up the early morning eucalyptus-scented air with petroleum-based impurities as it spluttered out of sight after making a U-turn on Greenhill Road.

As promised, he was back in less than a fortnight bearing gifts for me – a new collar and a new leash. They feel quite flimsy, so I guess he got them cheap. He didn’t rush back for me like he told me he did. I overhead a telephone conversation he had with a friend that he had to return quickly to help look after his mother, the matriarch of their clan. The clown. He frowned when he told his friend his book launch did not launch. It fizzled out without the imagined fanfare and without a single person turning up. He gave the flimsy excuse of some election being held on the same day. I did not buy it. As if an election can spoil a party. Give the people free grog and free food and the masses will turn up! The only thing an election can spoil is the hopes of a nation. Time and time again, voters in a democracy elect the wrong people to govern them. I am a dog and I have the dog-sense to figure out why that is so. It is so bloomin’ obvious that politicians go into politics to benefit themselves; so, no matter who governs, the results will be the same!

Today, their matriarch turns a hundred. A centenarian, not a centurion like some of his friends texted. Her 81-year-old lady friend from Melbourne wanted to know the secret of her longevity. The matriarch said it was no secret and therefore did not see the need to elaborate.

“Just eat small portions, very v-e-r-y s-l-o-w-l-y,” the clown said. He did not frown today. He was busy reading hundreds of birthday wishes to his mum. I suppose he had done enough of frowning since he got back. His Mrs insisted on cutting his hair the minute she picked him up from the airport. She was not impressed that he partied hard and let his hair down there in his hometown.

“Oh, it’s too long,” she complained, not realising he was lauded for its length. I guess he is as worse off as me about his rights. They cut his hair when they feel like it too.

“Just two inches, ok?” he begged.

Four inches later, his mood went surly and it was obvious his frown was surely to remain stuck to his face for days. I was wrong. His frown stayed for weeks.

“The Mrs,” he began and sighed before adding, “she meant well.”

What a clown, I said to myself and gave him a dog fart.