I have something in common with the 42nd president of the United States: Many people view what I see as a mere peccadillo as a major transgression warranting punishment. My servant takes heat from other humans because she doesn’t penalize me for what they consider to be a very naughty pursuit. I can’t be impeached, but people sure seem to have a lot to say about one of my favorite diversions. While others feel the need to express disdain and opine on this thing that I do, my servant seems to have taken a similar approach to that of the former first lady’s – choosing to “stand by her man.” (But that’s where the similarities end – my servant doesn’t have cankles). What, you ask is my perverted proclivity? I like box. I’m not picky either – gift, storage, moving, shoe, cereal – as long as it’s made of cardboard.
My box habit resulted from the same type of enabling indulgence that turns human children into spoiled brats. My servant works from home and she occasionally allowed me to devour cardboard containers to keep me occupied while she participated in conference calls with superiors or clients. It was a convenient, emergency pacification measure much like buying the gum or candy bar to stop the shrieking at the grocery store checkout. Maybe the former first lady permitted her husband’s exploits for similar appeasement reasons to keep him happy so he would continue moving up the elected office food chain.
For those who wish to shake their heads and “tsk-tsk” at my hobby, I invite you to recognize the innocence and simplicity of my addiction compared to so many others. Cardboard is cheaper than most anything humans spend money on to deal with a midlife crisis, breakup or boredom. It doesn’t make me fat (here I go lining up with that former president again – he didn’t inhale, I don’t swallow), it’s not pretentious and to the best of my knowledge, it’s plentiful and no one is exploited to get it (I’ve never heard of “Blood Cardboard,” have you?). Yet, I’ve overheard my servant defending my guilty pleasure to snotty, sanctimonious people full of dog training tips.
It never takes my servant that long to dispose of the aftermath of one of my satisfying romps with a box. Whatever she can’t pick up quickly by hand is dealt with by that screaming thing she plugs in and pushes across the floors. I am impeccably potty-trained, only destroyed one sandal when I was seven months old (and it was a cheap one – I knew the difference between a Choo and mere shoe even at that tender age) and I behave like a gracious gentleman around all people and children who wish to meet and greet me. I think all these armchair dog whisperers need to mind their own business and ask themselves honestly if their own pets are perfect. My box habit has neither lasting harm nor lingering foul – unlike destruction of furniture, a lazy or defiant act of indoor urination or the unmask-able, nauseating eau de litter box.
My situation differs from the former president’s in that I am not in a committed relationship with any one box. I’m free to play the field and due to the nature of our relations, the encounters can only be one-time flings. But I have to wonder – what is it with humans that they need to cast shame on the things that bring pleasure and demonize the pursuit of delight – all the while throwing stones from the front yard of their own glass houses? Maybe it comes down to whatever the meaning of “is” is. I personally think people need to get over it and themselves. Box is my bag – so what?!
~Henry
(with the help of Kelly Guest’s opposable thumbs)
