Clara the tormentor

     In Clara's mind, she and Wilbur are best friends.  In Wilbur's mind, she is a miniature person who must be tolerated until pieces of cheese can be quickly, noiselessly extracted from her fist or smears of peanut butter licked from her face.
     On the night of the Fourth of July, I spent a half hour soothing Clara, who seemed to be worried that Wilbur was somehow stuck outside and the fireworks were hurting him.  Wilbur was blissfully dozing downstairs on the loveseat, curled up tight like a meatball wrapped in bacon, and probably dreaming of that very thing.
     Today, Clara's tormenting reached new heights.  She tried to put her socks on Wilbur's paws.  Then she tried to put a sock on his snout.  She put a rock she found outside in his water dish.  I caught her delicately sampling his dog food.

   




She tried to dress Wilbur in my clothes, but only succeeded in getting my jacket draped across his back.