Maman et Papa thrust me into a crate on my very first night in my new home.
It was early November. I'd endured a 13 hour airplane flight (changed in Dallas), pick up at the freight gate at Hartsfield-Jackson, 1 1/2 hour drive from Atlanta to Athens. And believe me, none of it was first class.
Exhausted and terrified describes us all, me, Maman et Papa. I vividly recall that it was still light out when Maman et Papa drew the (flimsy) curtains, plopped me in my crate, stretched out on their comfortable futon and whispered together, waiting for me to fall asleep.
I overheard this exchange: Maman, "animals always go to sleep when it's dark and quiet." Papa, "should we drape a cloth over the crate?" Maman, "too like a bird cage, but be very very quiet and she'll think it's night." So humiliating for all concerned.
Eight years later, my crate has been transformed into a loft. I have a snuggly bed and I've been promised a TV of my very own. My food is served in a (NYC) Museum of Modern Art bowl and my water goblet is Mondrian patterned.
But they say the more things change, the more they stay the same (in my native tongue: plus ca change, plus ca meme chose; Sorry, no French language key board). Grandmere may not be my biggest fan, but she's a realist and we share a bond of common sense that seems to be otherwise lacking in the Lester Roushanzamir clan. Here's the evidence; she clipped this from the Wall Street Journal and mailed it to me:
[it reads: I'd have to say the biggest lie they tell themselves is 'Oh he likes the crate!'...unbelievable.]
How often have I heard that absurd phrase, "Oh, she likes her crate," and how often have I cringed at its rank absurdity. Still, I suppose Maman et Papa mean well.
And admittedly, they shake and serve a good stiff martini. Please make it a double.
