Waiting, Forever Waiting

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

At times it seems as though all of Smokey Jr.’s relatively short canine existence thus far has consisted of nothing but waiting, waiting, forever waiting.

Waiting for Mrs. Mom to bestir, descend from the master bath, and flip-flop-flap across the rustic kitchen tile in her fuzzy slippers to draw a can of chopped liver and lamb from the pantry and elicit that dreamily beautiful sound from the can opener on the floral-printed wall next to the refrigerator.

Waiting for Dad, in his plaid-shorted stale-joke-inscribed-tee-shirted backyard barbecuing ineptitude to send an errant, yet not totally charcoaled, all beef hot dog to the cool damp concrete of the patio, within easy reach of a starving pup’s ready tongue, salivary glands, and gurgling innards.

Waiting for that hectic hurricane known as Hermione to decide — in all her fantastic spastic jump-roping hopscotching hula-hooping wiffle-batting fort-building 7-year-old glory — that those last few bites of strawberry cream cheese toaster pastry are just too gross after all!

Waiting for Decker, and Morgan and Jeromy and Quint and all the rest of his teen pals, to awaken from the midafternoon tail of their Friday night sleepover, and relinquish their watch over the cheese-filled pizza crust remnants left in crushed ‘meat-lovers’ boxes beneath the pile of game controllers under the corner of the torn basement settee.

Waiting for Gramps to lose his feeble geriatric grasp on that greasy toasted cheese sandwich half he’s been noisily gumming for about the last hour, no more than a few short feet above and to the right of Smokey Jay’s fluttering nostrils.

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.