Page 4 of Stroked by (Stroked)
“Did my little angel puss call for me?” my dad asks. “I was walking Pope Francis, making sure he dookied outside.”
“Popey!” I squeal, reaching out with my needy hands, wanting to feel his hair run through my fingers.
The minute Pope Francis is handed over to me, I bury my face in his hair and take in the smell of frankincense and myrrh. He wears it as cologne, and it suits him well.
I know what you’re thinking, why is the ex-officio of the Roman Catholic Church letting you bury your face in his hair? Shouldn’t he be hanging out at the Vatican, breaking bread for the homeless like Jesus did?
He is, you ignorant shoehorns.
The Pope Francis I’m talking about is my mini white schnauzer, the love of my life, and the only good in this world. Gandhi, the real Pope Francis, Oprah, and the Olsen twins come in a close second.
Popey is the perfect little companion and religious outlet I need. He is kind, has a deep concern for the poor—mainly homeless dogs—and is extremely humble. Despite my attempts to pamper him with mink fur coats and gold-threaded dog beds, he continues to sleep on the cold, hard floor of my bedroom like a saint and will only wear collars from . . . PetSmart. I cringe just thinking about it.
Most importantly, Popey is the inspiration for my up-and-coming clothing line of religious wear for dogs. Where did I get such a fantastic idea you ask? After realizing my dog is a religious humanitarian, I wanted to make sure he was dressed properly for the part. After hours upon hours of research, I concluded there was a hole in the dog clothing market. I couldn’t find one Angelican surplice, Roman Southport cassock, or a simple short-sleeve, polyblend clergy shirt for a dog. What is the world coming to if I can’t buy a cassock for my own dog?
Therefore, I took matters into my own hands and began creating my own line of religious wear to satisfy my dog’s needs.
“What’s wrong, angel puss?” my dad asks as I’m nuzzling Pope Francis’s nose. “I heard you were upset about a bench.”
The rage I was feeling instantly vanishes, and I know it’s because God rests in my dog, and he can calm the inner Lucifer that wants to pop out of me from time to time. “The bench is oak, Daddy. I asked for African blackwood.”
“The nerve.” He slams his fist on the armrest of his chair. “Who do I need to fire?”
I want to say the carpenter, but I know Pope Francis wouldn’t be pleased with me. He’s so thoughtful and respectful of others, and I don’t want to disappoint him. Instead, I put on a brave face.
“No one, Daddy. I can tough it out. I only have to sit on it for a short time while they take pictures of me.”
“I don’t want my angel puss unhappy and uncomfortable. Are you sure you can go on with the shoot? I will demand we reschedule.”
I pat my dad’s arm. “Thank you, Daddy, but I feel like slumming it for a short amount of time won’t harm me. Might be nice to see how the people below us live. Let’s see what it feels like to be a blue-collar worker.”
“You’re so brave.” My dad grips my face, tears of pride in his eyes.
“Thanks, Daddy. It can be a blog post I make later and a moment to add to my scrapbooks. I can entitle it, ‘How people on the other side of the tracks live.’”
My dad claps for me. “What a wonderful and inspiring title. You’re changing the world, angel puss. I couldn’t be more proud of you.”
I grip my dad’s hand that still rests against my cheek, and I’m about to tell him I love him when someone from behind me clears their throat, interrupting the father-daughter dance of emotions I’m experiencing.
“Miss Chambers, I have someone I would like to introduce to you.”
“Who the hell has the audacity to interrupt—?” My words are cut short when I see Jonathan Byers standing behind me. Normally, I wouldn’t know someone’s name so well, especially when I don’t tend to care about the humans around me, but Jonathan is important. He’s good friends with Wally Rose, my producer. So I try to give him a miniscule of my respect, despite the fact he dresses like a hipster straight from an Anthropology ad. No matter what anyone ever says, sock hats and plaid should never be worn together with leather bracelets. Ill-fashioned illiterates. “Jonathan, I’m sorry. I thought you were that pestering coffee mule again.”
He straightens his skinny tie and shoots a fake smile in my direction. I’m not stupid. I know the irritable gingham-clad man-version of Blossom hates me, and well, the feeling is mutual.
“I apologize for interrupting you and your dad but I would like to introduce you to your new assistant. Her name is Paisley Macarro. She is a graduate from UCLA and has a degree in film production.”
From behind Jonathan, an extremely fit woman with tan skin, long black wavy hair, and grey eyes appears, looking a little gun-shy. She’s wearing a pair of cut-off jean shorts, combat boots, and a black tank top—what a monstrosity. Her skin is decorated with random tattoos of scribbled sayings, providing no rhyme or reason. It looks like Jonathan just opened a trash bag and she crawled out of it.
“Hello, Miss Chambers, it’s a pleasure—”
I hold up my hand, pleading with her to shut her mouth before a raccoon munching on an ear of corn pops out. “Did you say your name is Paisley?”
The girl quickly glances at Jonathan and then directs her attention back to me, where it belongs.
“Yes, it’s Paisley.”
“As in the Persian pattern that decorates most elderly women’s living rooms? Mainly in mauve or dusty blue tones?”
