photograph by abigail morici
The author.
I first met my Abby when I was behind bars. I wasn’t in prison, just a kennel, I’m told, but I did have an ID number that I could never keep straight.
I’m no good with keeping track of numbers. My Abby tells me I’ve already had my two meals today, but I could’ve sworn I only had one, or maybe none at all. I’ll wait a few minutes to ask again; maybe I can get a treat if I sit in front of the pantry door and whine just a bit. That sounds like a good plan. No, a perfect one. I could really go for a Milkbone right now — or two or seven or 8,160. Wait! That was my ID number: 8160. That’s a tricky number, if you ask me, so the wardens called me Blob Fish. They told me it was a temporary name until I found my Forever Home.
My government name: Blobert. My anarchist name: Blobby. I am an original, and anarchy is my calling.
When my Abby busted me out of there for a special, off-site seven-day Transport Foster Mission, she called me Blob Fish, sometimes just Fish. Fish? Fish are food, not friends. Do I look like a fish to you? In fact, I know I didn’t look like a fish then; whenever my Abby would introduce me to someone or call her parents to update them on our operation, she’d say, “Oh, he’s just a Foster.” And we all know what a Foster is — code for a gorgeous being who shares the same level of gorgeousness as Jodie Foster.
photograph by abigail morici
Blobby, always on the alert to protect Abby.
Would you say that Jodie Foster looks like a fish? No, I bet you wouldn’t, but I bet you could say I was the Jodie Foster to my Abby’s Hannibal Lecter — though between the two of us, I’m pretty sure I’m the one with the killer instincts. You should see me chase off that cat burglar that comes in our backyard. My Abby screams at me not to hurt her, says she’s not worth me having blood on my paws. I wonder where that cat is now? Probably taunting me from behind the shed. I haven’t been outside since five minutes ago; I’m sure she’s up to no good. I’ll have to check the perimeter soon.
Anyways, my Abby’s accomplice, whose name was Roommate, started calling me Blobby, and that was a code name I could get behind. My government name: Blobert. My anarchist name: Blobby. I am an original, and anarchy is my calling.
I let my Abby know that every day when I volunteer to be her food-taster — you know, in case of poison. But almost every meal, when I sit by her side, she takes the first bite. I try to stop her. I drool and whine and beg for her to let me have it or to eat the rest of it … just in case.
My duties as Blobby include protecting the home from potential bugs that listen in on our conversations. I won’t lie: I’m not the best at this part, but I will chase any bug that buzzes by. Once, I did succeed in catching one of the critters. I caught it right in my mouth and it stung me. I was down for the day, covered in hives. I had to take these little pills from some co-conspirator named Ben — Ben A. Dryl, I think. I would hate a name like that, but I don’t remember much from that day. Oh, the sacrifices I make to protect my Abby.
And I’m willing to make more sacrifices if need be. I let my Abby know that every day when I volunteer to be her food-taster — you know, in case of poison. But almost every meal, when I sit by her side, she takes the first bite. I try to stop her. I drool and whine and beg for her to let me have it or to eat the rest of it … just in case. The worst part: I know she poisons herself just a little bit almost every day with that stuff called Chocolate — she tells me as much — but I could handle it if she just let me eat some, too.
At night, though, she lets me go undercover while she sleeps. Here’s the unspoken plan: If an intruder (my money’s on that cat burglar) comes in, I will surprise them from my hiding spot under the covers. Sometimes, my Abby forgets our plan, so I nudge her to wake up and to hold the sheets up so I can crawl under them. I have to wake her up a bunch, in the mornings, too. What would she do without me? She’d be lost.
I guess that’s why our seven-day Transport Foster Mission got extended into a lifetime Adoption Mission. My Abby isn’t just my Abby anymore — she’s my mom, too. Still, I’m just Blobby. It’s no longer a code name or temporary placeholder; it’s engraved on my shiny tag that hangs from my collar, so I’m told. Some say that my name is “unique”; others, like my grandparents, say my name is “stupid,” though that’s not a word in my vocabulary.
I’m just happy my name isn’t 8160 — but it would be a pretty cool nickname for when I reach my goal of 8,160 treats in a day. I’m sure I can do it, right after I catch this cat first and maybe that bug, too.
