Readers often ask me questions of both a personal and spiritual nature, so that from time to time, I feel compelled to address them in this format. One that recurs, in one form or another, is “You really love Lizzie, don’t you?” That, dear reader, is a loaded question – one fraught with many ramifications and consequences.
Much like Professor Henry Higgins, in Lerner and Loewe’s My Fair Lady, as he sings about Eliza Doolittle, I can say of Lizzie “I’ve grown accustomed to her face.” Hmmm, I just realized the strong connection between Eliza and Lizzie. How did I not note that before? I digress. Lizzie has become a part of my daily scenery, and more accurately, quoting the lyrics from said song,
“I’ve grown accustomed to her face.
She almost makes the day begin.”
The question still remains, “Do you really love Lizzie?” and to that I must honestly answer that I don’t know. How is it possible to love such a non-entity of a pug? She contributes nothing to my day. She fusses needlessly over me when I’m ill. She stares at me with these pathetic mooneyes. She always waits for me to have the first treat. She is incapable of having an intelligent conversation and she simpers like an empty-headed twit. She protects me from any imagined danger on the street. She knows I’m not interested in cuddling but sometimes ignores that caveat and curls up close to me anyway if she “senses” I might need her little body near me. She is cloying and annoying. She has lost more teeth than she currently has, and her body resembles a cross between a hedgehog and a woodchuck. So how could I possibly love this foolish pug?
Think of me as a pug Rex Harrison and sing these words:
Damn! Damn! Damn! Damn!
I’ve grown accustomed to her face.
She almost makes the day begin.
I’ve grown accustomed to the tune that
She whistles night and noon.
Her smiles, her frowns,
Her ups, her downs
Are second nature to me now;
Like breathing out and breathing in.
I was serenely independent and content before we met;
Surely I could always be that way again-
I’ve grown accustomed to her look;
Accustomed to her voice;
Accustomed to her face.
What is love anyway? I’m sure I haven’t a clue so I leave that answer to you, dear reader.