If this chair could talk

Well, I’m back.

I won’t comment on the reasons for my absence. I can’t help it if I’m a dog. That's just the way it is. So get over it folks! (Does that constitute a comment?)(Oops).

Anyhow, things are not the same these days Chez Miss Lucille (that’s “at my house”, for you less Continental types). Most Excellent Female Companion returned from a long time away and always seems to be sitting down in this strange looking chair. This thing moves, it has wheels, and some part of my anatomy always seems to be just under those damn wheels. I’ll just get comfortable, right smack dab in the middle of the kitchen floor, where all good Labradors belong, and Whoa Daddy! Here she comes, “Lucy up! Lucy UP!” I’ll just get out of the way in time. Then, I’ll settle somewhere else, and Damn! Here she comes again….”Lucy UP! UP!”

This goes on all day.

What the heck is going on here?

I decided to take matters into my own hands (paws?) and get some answers. You see, being a blogging dog is just one of my many talents….I can communicate with seemingly inanimate objects. I bet you folks could too if only you weren’t so stuck on being, well, Humans. So I took that damn chair aside, and boy did it have a tale to tell. I think I’ll let the chair speak for itself. Take it away, Mr. Wheels:

Hello.
I am a rental chair #47 and I have no permanent home. My last gig was an elderly lady named Sophie. She was 72. She had advanced Alzheimer's. She sat in me most days like a deflated balloon. She didn’t have the stamina to move me around so she just sat and waited, and waited and sat, staring at nothing in particular. Occasionally her sister Ida came to visit and played the radio for Sadie. Somewhere, deep inside the gauzy muddle of her brain, a little girl was twirling and jumping to the music. I know this because I could feel her dancing, the faint impression of her buttocks flexing ever so slightly in time to the music against the faux leather sling of my seat. Later on, she died during one of those days of waiting and sitting. She was not dancing that day.


All told, about 5 people have ended their days in my not so comfy embrace. Only one guy actually fell out, but I won’t go there.

Before Sadie, was Jason, a young man in his late twenties. He had broken both legs in a skateboard accident and needed me for 2 months. He was an angry guy who slammed me around, never really adapting to using me with agility and grace. He drank, and cussed lot and mostly watched TV nonstop. He also spoke very badly to his Mother who seemed to try only to please him.

Inspite of the fact that I give people mobility, most people hate me and are very angry at my limitations. It’s a thankless job. Jason eventually got his legs back but I am sure his anger stuck around.

Then there was Luther, a homeless black man with diabetes. He began to lose sensation in his lower extremities and eventually lost control of his legs. He too was a drinker and a heavy smoker who once fought for freedom in the Vietnam war. Luther himself never really felt free. He muttered and mumbled and talked to no one in particular about life’s injustices. Eventually, He ended up in a Veteran’s Home where he passed away, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips, dragged under by the bitterness of his hardscrabble life.

My current “rider” is Miss Lucille’s Female Human Companion. She was in a motorbike accident and banged up her foot pretty badly. After 8 weeks she is finally starting to walk again, but it is slow going. She is starting to use me less. I get the feeling I will not be missed. (Especially by Miss Lucille!)

Mostly, my job is a sad one. For most people I represent diminishment, frustration and loss. I hear tell that when I am deemed too old and used and beat up I will be shipped off to a foreign land like Africa or Guatemala where some one will be very grateful to have me, dents, rips and all.

I guess misery is all relative...

So, that’s about it from my perspective. I will do my best not to run over Miss Lucille’s foot again, but then, I don’t have much control over that.
After all I’m just the chair, not the rider.


Keeping it not exactly real,
I remain,
Miss Lucille