Flash! of the Week: "Scoop Dog"

The dog heard him coming before I did. She woke out of a deep sleep on the rug and was completely alert and whining at the door. I knew this day was coming, but I hoped we had at least one more week before it began again.

That damn jingle was ringing through the air, like the Siren's call for the neighborhood. It was the infernal, magical, war trumpet bells of the ice cream man and his refrigerated rolling tank of treats.

"Oh no, not now," I muttered, knowing it was already too late.

Sundae, my Boston Terrier and dessert gremlin, exploded into barks that loosely translated to "THE SUGAR PROPHET HAS RETURNED!" She launched herself against the front door like a caffeine-fueled battering ram. I had less than ten seconds to leash her before she broke through the drywall like a sugar-craving Kool-Aid Man. Too late. She was already pawing at the lock like a raccoon in a Home Depot.

"Wait, Sundae! You can't just..."

But she could. And she did. With one final shriek of canine ecstasy, she flung the door open and tore across the lawn toward the approaching jingle-juggernaut of diabetes. I still have not figured out how she learned how to open the door.

The ice cream man, whom I've come to fear as much as my dog loves, leaned out of his window with the grin of a man who knew his most loyal customer had no opposable thumbs. "Well, if it isn't Miss Sundae! Back for round 38, eh?"

The crowd of kids waiting for Bomb Pops, Choco Tacos, and Creamcicles parted like the Red Sea. Sundae sauntered up, tongue flinging slobber, eyes wild, and tail performing what could only be described as aggressive semaphore. She launched into her patented "spin-bark-flop" routine, a hypnotic dance she'd perfected to earn sympathy scoops.

"I'm only giving her one this time!" the ice cream man shouted as I stumbled barefoot across the lawn, still in my Batman pajama pants.

"No! No more! She's on a diet! She's gained twelve pounds this month! She tried to eat a candle yesterday because it smelled like vanilla bean!"

The driver looked at Sundae. Sundae looked at the driver. They shared a silent moment of betrayal and longing. Then he handed her a tiny pup cone with a swirl of vanilla and bacon bits. She inhaled it like a furry Dyson vacuum cleaner.

"Oh, come on," I wheezed as I doubled over. "You're spoiling her rotten!"

"She's got a punch card," he said, holding a tattered, paw-printed ice cream loyalty card. "One more and she gets a free sundae."

"She is a sundae! A big, chocolate and vanilla sundae."

And yet Sundae sat smugly at his feet, licking residual bacon grease off her nose, judging me with the cold confidence of a creature who knew exactly how much I'd spent on carpet cleaner this month.

"Great," I muttered. "Now she's going to poop glitter again."

As the ice cream truck pulled away in a fanfare of chiming melodies and sticky-fingered children, Sundae strutted back toward the house like a champion who'd just won gold at the Olympics. She paused at the door, looked at me, and sneezed dramatically. A sprinkle of rainbow jimmies puffed from her nostrils.

I sighed. Some people get hunting dogs, some get show dogs, and some train service dogs. I have an ice cream hustler with a dairy addiction.

And she just earned her tenth punch.