If you follow my blog
regularly or recently
you’ve been introduced
to Figgy Pudding,
my nose-breaking-black eye making
72-pound chocolate lab mix.
As a puppy,
Figgy did time at
obedience classes,
private trainings
doggie boot camps
in my feeble attempt
to tame him into an
acceptable roommate.
The only one who had
even marginal success
with Figgy
was a trainer named Rachel.
For each behavior infraction
Rachel would reprimand
Figgy with a dissapproving:
“NOT FOR FIGGY!”
I like this because
it implied that Figgy’s behavior —
be it chewing a hole in a
cashmere sweater,
peeing on the duvet cover or
eating a bottle of thyroid medication —
was not wrong, exactly
just not for Figgy.
Her words implied choice
and the feeling that somehow
we all had higher expectations
of Figgy’s behavior.
And he should too.
Since Figgy is mostly trained now,
again I believe by his choice,
I’ve taken to using this command on myself.
NOT FOR JULIE!
I admonish myself under my breath.
Be it a scone I don’t need
a friendship that’s not serving me
or a habit I can’t seem to break.
It’s not wrong or bad,
It’s just not for Julie.
Good girl.
