David Sedaris: Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk

“That’s right, Mr. Snob,” my wife said. She always calls me that when we disagree about something, whether it’s a chew toy or the smell of an electrical appliance. “I guess I’m just not as well-bred as you,” she’ll say. And it’s true. She’s not. It’s also true that she’s the one forever bringing it up. It’s her own insecurity talking, the tragic self-hatred of a mixed-breed country girl, so I try to let it slide.

My wife mentions my bloodline when she’s ticked off, of course, and then again whenever I get sent out on a stud call, which is not the same as cheating, I don’t care what you hear. Infidelity involves a choice, while this is arranged by forces beyond my control. “These females don’t want me any more than I want them,” I tell my wife. “It’s not an affair, it’s work. It’s my job, for God’s sake.”

She says that if it’s a paycheck I’m after, I could just as easily lug around a blind person. “Or better yet, sniff out contraband, you and that selective nose that hates the TV but loves the smell of a book.”

“Not all books,” I tell her. And it’s true. I can’t stand thrillers.

It was in the midst of our difficulties, my wife’s stitches still tender, that I was sent to service a female a few hours west of our home. Normally it’s just “hello/good-bye,” but the land is beautiful in that part of the world. It’s wooded, with lots of hills, so rather than waiting for me to finish, my owner decided to drop me off and spend the rest of the day nosing around in his car. The act itself-it’s hard to think of it as sex-lasted no more than a minute. Then this female and I got to talking. She’s pure Irish setter, just like me, so we had that in common. Both of us had hookworms when we were young, and both of us, very coincidentally, love the taste and texture of candles. “As long as they’re not scented,” she said.

“The worst are those cheap vanilla candles,” I offered.

She agreed, adding that the “cheap” part was redundant. “ All vanilla-scented candles are cheap.”

I told her about a cinnamon-scented candle I’d once chewed on as a puppy, and as she howled her sympathetic disgust, I thought of my wife and of how we would have sounded to her ears. “Arrogant,” she’d have called us. “Noses so high in the air you can’t smell your own farts.” This for the crime of preferring one thing over another.

“You know what else I hate?” I said to the female. “I hate air fresheners, coconut being the worst.”

“Well, I don’t know,” she said. “I think a pretty good case could be built against wild cherry.”

“Oh my God, wild cherry!” I said, and I hunched my shoulders, pretending to barf.

From air fresheners, we wandered on to padded toilet seats, novelty mailboxes, and Labradoodles. She’d just started in on light jazz when I suggested we try the breeding thing one more time. “In case the first go didn’t work.”

“Don’t have to ask me twice,” she said.

I didn’t have to ask at all for round three, and the one after that just seemed to happen on its own. “An aftershock,” the female called it. Some might define this as cheating, but I just call it being thorough. Then too I was completely up front about my marital status, practically from the start.

“Your wife?” the female said. “So how did that happen?”

I told her we were married by my owner’s girlfriend. “Now former girlfriend,” I said. “I don’t know how binding it is, but I wouldn’t want to be with anyone else.” And it’s true, I wouldn’t. Among other things, I like the fact that my wife needs me. Without my guidance, she’s sure to finish what her boyfriend started. The child across the street will be mangled even worse, and for what? “This is not you, ” I keep telling her. For now, though, it’s as if she’s under a spell. I explained this to the female as best as I could, and after I’d finished she cocked her head.

“So your wife was brainwashed by an English bull terrier?”

“Something like that.”

“God,” she said, “I hate English bull terriers.”

That was when we had the aftershock.

It was almost dusk when the owner arrived, and he and I headed off for home. The air conditioner was on, but after some whining I got him to lower the window. I had my head out and we’d been on the road for no more than twenty minutes when we came upon a burning building. It was a house, three stories tall, with a low brick wall around it. The owner pulled over, and before he could stop me I jumped over the seat and joined him on the grass. Had my wife been with me, he’d have forced us back into the car, but I’m pretty reliable, even without a leash. Besides, I make him look good, much more interesting than he actually is.

A small crowd had begun to gather, encircling a barefoot woman with sweatpants on. As we moved closer, I saw that she was holding a dachshund, the type with long hair. Everyone watched as she pushed back his ears, repeatedly kissing his forehead while he twisted and begged to be let down. It was only when an old man arrived and gathered the woman in an embrace that the dog broke free. He and I got to talking, and I learned he was the single thing this woman had reached for when she smelled the smoke and realized that her house was on fire. “Which is nice and everything, don’t get me wrong,” the dachshund said, “but she’s got a teenage son in there.” He gestured toward a second-floor window with black smoke pouring out of it. “He and his mother were constantly at each other’s throats, but he was always nice to me, poor kid.”

The dachshund let out a sigh, and as the woman reached down to snatch him back up, I caught a glimpse of the poor guy’s future. I could have saved anything, and I chose you.

Who wants to live with that kind of pressure?

As I wished him good luck, the firemen arrived. A group of three headed toward the house and were almost there when a part of the roof collapsed. Sparks shot into the darkening sky, and as they sputtered down to earth, I caught the scent of burning flesh and realized how hungry I was. With any luck the owner would stop on our way home and buy us each a hamburger wrapped in paper. Then, smelling of smoke and ketchup, I’d return to my hangdog wife and continue the long business of loving her.

The crow was out one morning, looking for something to eat, when she spotted a newborn lamb suckling in the field below. Sheep, she thought. What I wouldn’t give for a life like that. The mother spits out a baby and then she just lies there doing nothing while it feeds itself. No nest to build, no spending every rotten moment searching for food, and even then it’s never enough.

On top of that, birds had to be homeschooled, not like sheep or cows, who learned junk from one another. “It takes a village,” they liked to say, not that there was much to learn in the first place. You lower your head, and food goes in. Raise your tail, and it comes out. The eating part, they had down, but the rest, forget it. Crap smeared from one end of their bodies to the other. Where was the fucking village when it came to cleaning themselves? That’s what the crow wanted to ask. Oh, they moaned about the insects-flies lighting on their faces all day-but news flash: flies go where the shit is, so if you don’t want them clustering on your forehead, clean it! God, these grazing animals were stupid, which was not altogether a bad thing.