“Have I missed it?!” I scrambled out of bed, flinging my covers to the floor in a panic. I rushed to the living-room and began flipping through the channels. Fueled with adrenalin, and anticipation, I was barely breathing; hoping that I hadn’t missed Gummi Bears, yet again.
“Yes!” I exclaimed while doing the happy-dance, elated to see that the Snorks was still on, even though I hated that show.
Now, I’m not sure if any of you remember the Snorks, but they were like the Go-Bots of the cartoon universe; they only existed because Papa Smurf didn’t know enough about copyright law to smurf their snorkleing asses right in to smurfin’ prison.
However, I was glad that the Smurfs wasn’t on, because that would mean that Gummi bears was over, and the last time that happened I spent the whole week wondering: “Did I miss the one where the Gummi Bears are finally reunited with their long lost family?” which is basically torture to a five year old.
Now, I know everybody has their own ritual for Gummi Bears and I was no exception: I immediately grabbed one of my parents books that I just knew was full of magic spells and then I dashed back into my room to find everything that I needed: digging through my toy chest looking for my cape and sword. Then, fully armed, I fought my way to the kitchen to make a giant bowl of Froot Loops.
As I ate my breakfast, and tried to watch Snorks, I noticed that my dog was just lying on the floor and he didn’t even have enough energy to look up at the TV! He had the most depressed look on his face, as if the world hadn’t been at all kind to him...
“Cheer up doggy! We’re about to watch Gummi Bears!” I enthused while repeatedly dropping my hand on his head and dragging it roughly down the length of his back. But he didn’t cheer up, he only seemed to get worse, slipping deeper into some sort of doggy depression.
Then I got an idea; so I looked into his big sorrowful eyes, and, gripping both sides of his head, said softly: “Do you know what you need? You need friends!” and for a brief moment I saw a glimmer of hope sparkle in his right eye, and I just knew that I was onto something.
I jumped up and ran over to the front door, and upon opening it, to my delight, I saw in the faint dawn light, two big dogs walking down the street; right in front of my house!
“Come here doggies! Come on! We’re having a party!” I announced while slapping my leg.
They instantly bolted past me, and ran excitedly into the house, and I thought: “These dogs must never have been invited to a party before. Maybe it’s because their fur is all stuck together and muddy.”
Then the neighbor’s dog ran over to the side of his yard to see what all the commotion was about.
“Come on boy! You’re invited too. Come on!” I shouted while vigorously waiving him over. Then two of his friends, that I hadn’t met before, ran up to greet him, and he looked up at me, coyly, as if to ask, “Can I bring my friends?”
“Come on boy, we’re watching Gummi Bears!” I waved them towards me, to show that all were welcome.
As I walked back into the house things were going great, and although no one was talking, I could tell that everyone was communicating in some sort of dog way that I didn’t understand and my dog seemed very happy, and excited to be with his own kind.
And then it happened: The Gummi Bears theme song kicked off and all the dogs turned to watch the greatest show ever made. They began lying down and making themselves comfortable, and I could tell that they were really enjoying their party until, out of nowhere, one dickhead dog began growling for no apparent reason.
“Shhh… Be a good dog and watch TV,” I said politely, but my words had no effect, and what I didn’t know then was that this was the type of asshole that always shows up to parties looking for a fight.
“Grrr!” he continued; so I broke out my scolding finger and I began waggling it at him.
“You’re being a bad doggy, and your making us miss the show. Now be a good doggy!” But then out of nowhere another dog growled back, and with that, a full blown fight broke out, with guests jumping, biting, and yanking at each other.
“Stop it! You’re all in big trouble!” I yelled, but they wouldn’t listen and suddenly all I saw was vicious animals. So, panicked and wide-eyed, I swiftly backed up, and scaled to the top of the back of the couch, wobbling precariously, with my arms outstretched, and trying in vain to grip the flat, smooth wall; terrified of tumbling into the mass of writhing dogs below.
“Stop it! Stop it!” I screamed down at them, and then my dad came bursting out of his bedroom, led by an ample belly that drooped down over his boxer shorts, and chased by a cloud of stale beer and nicotine, shouting: “Turn down the fucking TV!... What the fuck!... Who invited you into my house?!”
For just a moment he looked bewildered, as if two packs of stray dogs fighting it out in his living room was the last thing he expected to see at 7:05 AM on a Saturday, but then fire consumed his eyes, and he began to see red.
“Get the fuck out of my house!” he fee-fie-fo-fummed while lumbering towards them, and then they were all gone in a flash: exiting fluidly like a herd of sheep; all animosity towards each evaporated. Then he slammed the door and turned toward me, “What the fuck happened?!” he asked in a state of concern and confusion.
“The dog was lonely, so I invited some of his friends over for a party...”
“You what?” he barked in disbelief, unable to fathom what I had just said. Then his shock slowly morphed into a kind of apoplectic anger which he couldn’t act on. So, feeling powerless, he yelled,
“Don’t ever let a pack of wild dogs into my house again!” And then, abruptly, he glanced up and around with concern, as his head turtled defensively into his shoulders, in case he had to deal with any predators that might be lurking above, and then he traipsed off back to bed.
So, that was my first and last dog party, and I’m not sure what I learned, if anything, because seriously, who has time for learning when Gummi Bears is on?
