|That curled lip: Brando taught me.|
Cesar Millan, if you are up to it, I, Tuckerby of Wellesley, challenge you to get me out of a car when I do not wish to.
Those of you who've known me my whole life, or at least that fantastic part that began when I moved to Swellesley to live almost literally in the lap of luxury, know that the initial challenge was far different.
That one had to do with going IN. It's one I still issue to my parents now and then, especially Mom, just to see if I can break her veneer of calm, or at least make her day. So that's pretty much every day that she dares cart me around.
For those uninitiated into my ways of stubborn (all the ways—one cannot count them), I only go IN when I am going OUT somewhere. For example, if I am home and bored, and Mom says, "Tucker, do you want to go?" there are two possible answers: one if by foot and one if by car. By foot: emphatically NO. By car, definitely YES. That's getting IN.
However, after a walk somewhere OUT of my immediate neighborhood (if I deign to get OUT, and I change that up, just to keep things interesting), I very rarely get back IN, unless directed by a stranger (when Mom does her Blanche du Bois helpless routine, and yes, she is practically crazed by that time).
Anyway, back to getting OUT. If it's raining, or threatening to rain, or if I have heard a single drop fall on my roof, and my parents take me in the C-A-R out of sheer desperation, it is very likely that upon returning home, I will do one of two things: take advantage of the open garage door and run away, or two, remain in the way back of the vehicle.
Tonight, I chose option 2. Mom first thought the aroma of newly acquired Chinese food would do the trick, but it's not Paleo enough for me. Then she tried these new treats that I'm wild about. I didn't even look up.
She called Dad for backup. He plops some steak into my bowl. From the wayback of the car, cozily housed in the garage, I can hear it ping. I prick up my ears, but no movement is otherwise discerned. He brings my bowl, with a few pieces of steak in it, into the garage. Mom holds the bowl under my nose.
I will confess that, here, I very slightly start to salivate. But that's all. Really, I require at least a half-pound, maybe more, if I'm going to lose my dignity. If asked, my terms would be more like Fruit-of-the-Month but on a more frequent basis: some form of steak, cooked to perfection, served right to my door—the garage door, that is.
Finally, Dad has had enough, and besides, the Chinese food is getting cold. In a very Cesar-like manner, he leads my reluctant self out of the car and into the house. I give up, but I make sure that bowl got refilled. Besides, it stopped raining.
Cesar, the challenge is on: dare you take it?