All my life I've copied my sister. I liked
whatever she liked, ate whatever she ate (and then some) and wanted everything
she touched. I could see her doing her homework from my room and used to sit at
my desk pretending I was studying when I was five. “I guess I’ll have to erase that one!” I’d
call out, thinking I had her fooled. If she killed a bug, I’d wait for her to walk
away and then shove it in my pocket. If my mother and I were out shopping, and
I refused to buy, say, an umbrella, all my mother had to say was, "Robin
wants one," and the next thing I knew, I was walking around the mall
proudly twirling a yellow patent leather parasol humming, "Singin' in the
Rain." I don’t know why little
sisters copy their older siblings. I certainly don’t copy her now. I can’t even
relate to her anymore or understand the way she lives. For instance, I only
have one dog and she has five. I have a Yellow Lab. That’s it. Just the one dog. She has a Rottweiler, a Poodle, a Golden Retriever,
something that resembles a coyote and a Yorkie/Poodle mix. She prefers
these animals to people and has long, intimate conversations with them.
Everyone in the family whispers behind her back about the fact that she has so
many dogs and that she thinks they’re communicating with her, but we love her anyway,
because she's a very, very nice person. So, the other day I meet her at the
park to walk the dogs. As she's walking toward me, I hear her say to the
coyote, who is pulling her into the bushes, "Bandit, we talked about this
in the car. And don’t pretend you didn’t hear me. What happened the last time
you went in there? Remember how you felt afterwards?. . . Exactly!” The dog looks up at her and
smiles, and I roll my eyes and once again try to explain to my sister that Bandit is
hard of hearing. We walk the dogs for a while and eventually she leaves,
but I continue on because my car is parked just beyond the woods.
As Mikki and I wind our way around the trails, I hear something that
sounds like a large animal rustling around in the trees. Of course I assume it’s an alligator and
start shaking. I realize I am very far away from any kind of water where
an alligator might live, but I'm certain I'm about to be eaten alive. In
fact, I’ve been anticipating this moment since the day we moved to
Florida. I knew I was going to die here.
It was just a matter of time. Everyone
dies here. I just didn’t know whether it would be an alligator or a poisonous
frog. Fortunately my dog is still on her leash so I bring her closer and
whisper,
"Don’t say a word. Just start running." She accidentally
misunderstands me and continues sniffing around.
"Run," I say again with my teeth clenched. "I hear an
alligator."
But she doesn't run. She continues poking her
nose in a little pile of leaves. I curse her for not knowing what an
alligator is, and try to drag her away, but she won’t budge. In fact, she
starts dragging me further into the woods toward what I now imagine to be a Kimoto
dragon.
I decide I will have to wrestle the alligator/dragon. I imagine myself
desperately biting and punching him, stabbing his leathery skin with my car key
as my dog looks on cheering. Suddenly I lift my head and spot a tall figure
kneeling in front of me. As God is my witness, what I thought was an
alligator was actually a tall, curly-haired woman in a jogging suit making a doody in the woods. This
is a true story by the way. Somehow I didn’t scream. I stayed perfectly calm, muttered a barely
audible, "Mornin'," and backed away. When we were safely back in
the car, I looked at my dog and we both got hysterical laughing. Afterwards she rested her elbow on my shoulder and we both sighed. I guess neither of us ever expected to meet someone with our exact same sense of humor. Really, what were the chances? I wonder if I should get one or two more dogs to keep her company when I'm not home. I guess I could just ask her.
