The office where I work had a dog show today in a local park. Once again, my pet bandicoots, all forty-three of them, were not allowed to participate. I want to know why. I know they are not dogs. Maybe, instead of just limiting participants to dogs, the competition could be open to other animals. Bandicoots, for example. But not cats. Cats are the natural enemy of bandicoots.
I want you to know, the bandicoots were looking forward to performing. The little creatures worked all year perfecting a dance routine, a routine you would immediately recognize as “Thriller,” made popular by Mr. Michael Jackson, a man not averse to singing love songs to rodents, which my bandicoots proudly acknowledge they are. The bandicoots rehearsed and practiced long, hard hours, all for a few minutes of applause, leading hopefully to an encore performance of “Bad Romance” by Lady Gaga, and a gift card to Outback Steakhouse where a bloomin’ onion awaited them. Reservations were made, but the decency to afford these talented darlings a chance to perform, a chance that all those stupid mutts took for granted, is beyond my understanding.