Little Buddy was determined to win the prize.
A lavish spread of his most favoritest snacks — including a mouth-watering variety of crunchies, Gouda and American cheese, turkey meaty sticks and more — would be his if he could rush to the kitchen, open the refrigerator door, remove a cold beer, and somehow get it back to his human before the end of the half-inning commercial break during a Yankees broadcast.
“Sixty seconds left!” Big Buddy called from the living room.
Little Buddy panicked. He was still working out how to reliably open the refrigerator door and was worried about whether he’d be able to carry the bottle by gripping the slender part with his teeth, or would be forced to roll it.
With a back paw resting against the adjacent cabinet, Buddy wedged his body against the refrigerator door and, with a bit of wiggling, finally pried it open. Yes!
There it was: the cold beer.
“Thirty seconds!” Big Buddy called.
Oh crap! The feline tried to grab the top of the bottle with his teeth, but it was slippery with condensation and cold.
I’ll have to roll it, then, he conceded.
Working quickly, he had the bottle safely on the floor in a few seconds and began rolling, nudging the icy brew with his nose and correcting its direction with his paws. Think of the snacks, he told himself.
He was out of the kitchen and heading toward the living room, beer rolling along, when Yankees announcer Michael Kay’s voice boomed through the speakers.
“And we’re back here in the bottom of the sixth, Yankees up two runs over the Red Sox,” he said.
“Time!” Big Buddy said, then got up and walked over to where his feline pal was sitting dejected with his shoulders slumped.
The human picked up the beer and cracked it open.
“So close,” he said, shaking his head. “What a shame.”
Little Buddy stared at the floor sadly as Big Buddy walked into the kitchen. Then he heard the unmistakable crinkle of a plastic bag. It was music to his ears, a balm for his soul, relief for his rumbling stomach.
I knew Big Buddy wouldn’t do this to me! he thought. He’s gonna give me that snack spread anyway!
The excited feline came skidding to a halt just inside the kitchen doorway and looked up to find his human digging a few mochi nuggets out of a Trader Joe’s bag. His tail, which had been quivering with excitement a second ago, sank like an inflatable air dancer suddenly deprived of wind.
“Mmmm,” the human said. “These are delicious. Don’t you just love snacks?”
He walked back into the living room and collapsed in his chair, leaving Little Buddy staring longingly up at the inaccessible Cabinet of Yums.
The hollow pop of a fastball discharging its kinetic energy off a wooden bat and the roar of the crowd sounded through the speakers in the next room, sending minute rumbles through the floor that tickled Buddy’s paw pads.
The gods of yums are pooping on me from great heights, he thought. What have I done to deserve this cruel fate?
“He’s training you!”
Little Buddy spun around. Who was meowing to him?
“Up here, dummy!” the voice meowed, and Little Buddy looked up to find a cat the color of a tangerine sitting on the outside window ledge and licking one paw.
“What do you mean by ‘he’s training me?'” Buddy asked the mysterious interloper.
The other feline continued raking his tongue along his paw at an insouciant pace, then finally stopped and looked down.
“He’s conditioning you to retrieve bottles of beer,” the interloper said with certainty. “The promise of a reward lit a fire under your behind, so you didn’t even question the ridiculous ‘challenge.’ And that, my boy, is how humans train lesser creatures like dogs. It is beneath us felines and an insult to our dignity!”
Buddy let the new information sink in.
“That bastard!” he meowed.
“Yes!” the tangerine cat replied.
“He’s treating me like a mutt? A dirty dog?”
“An abominable way to treat a friend, and if I may say so, an insult to your stature!”
Buddy seethed. “I’m supposed to be his best pal! His little buddy!”
“Some might call it a stunning display of absolute contempt for your feelings and your stomach,” the other feline nodded. “Criminal, really.”
“I’m gonna kill him!” Buddy meowed angrily.
The orange cat held up both paws.
“Hold off on that for a minute, will you, pal? If you go scorched Earth right away, you’ll have nothing for when this inevitably escalates.”
Buddy nodded reluctantly. “What did you have in mind?”
Tangerine smiled mischievously.
“My friend,” he trilled, “do you know what a toothbrush is?”
Author’s note: This is a work of fiction. At no time has Bud ever been denied a snack, nor has he ever missed a meal.
Pain In The Bud 