StinkermanPosted: October 22, 2012
Light of our life and bane of our couch covers.
We love him, so dearly, even as he putts around our apartment, causing equal amounts mayhem and laughter. He’s a bit like Longfellow’s little girl with a curl: when he is good, he’s very good indeed, and when he is bad, he is horrid.
He’s an amalgamation of adorable features. That quizzical head-slant, left to right and back again, when he tries to understand what’s going on. Skype, for instance, is a deep mystery to Albus. His prancing walk, tail stick straight and floppy ears bouncing, on our evening circle of the apartment complex. The way he runs for the doors at the mention of the word “walk” or the jangle of keys in one of our pockets. His deep treat addiction that drives him to do all his tricks, every single one, back-to-back: sit-shake hands-lie down-(halfway) roll over. Sweet pupster thinks that’s going to get him more good things, faster. He’s not always wrong, either. Who could resist?
But the bad, goodness, is serious. Last January Albus ate our couch covers and chewed up our wooden (ok, vinyl, or something like unto) baseboards. When company comes over, he freaks out and a warm welcome often turns into a jumpfest. We’ve still not been able to keep him from trying to scavenge off the table top when our backs are turned. And bath time turns him a raging monster who sprints circles about our living room, growling and attacking his toys like small rodents who’ve personally insulted his honor.
Albus goes most places we go: to tutoring, walks around campus, on our scooters, even to restaurants, where he sits under the table with varying degrees of success and patience. He’s famous around these parts. As white Americans, we already stand out. Albus, though, is a whole other level of celebrity. It’s not at all unusual for us to hear people talking about him as we pass by, people we don’t remember meeting at all. “Oh, there goes Albus,” they say to their friend as we pass in the street. “I took a picture of him last year.” Stare and rack my brain as I might, most often I’ve no recollection of that particular photographer.
My personal favorite was the day Michael and I were standing on the side of the road, about to go buy veggies in our local market when a guy, no idea who, passed by on his motorcycle. We heard this random yelling Albus’s Asian name as he passed by: “Ao-bu-se!!!!” Whaaaaat? In these parts, Albus is a bona fide Asian superstar.
He’s spoiled, for certain, but he makes us happy. I’m so thankful we get to have this little guy around.