I do wish I had come up with a cleverer title, but what is a tall blonde buxom style goddess to DO? I met with my accountant yesterday (a tall, irrestible man who is–yes–taller than moi), and each year the list of deductions grows smaller. I tried everything…batting my eyelashes, showing some leg, unbuttoning the top button of my Chanel blouse. Nothing worked! Was the man made of stone?
The final insult was to learn that I could no longer deduct Bucky the Wonderdog! He has been a goldmine of deductions, what with wardrobe, vet care, the finest food money can buy, toys, accessories, plane fare…I swear, that miniature pinscher has more deductions than his owner.
“But Bucky is an essential part of my business!” I cried, trying to keep my voice as high and feminine as possible. “He is part of my trademark! He is almost my partner! Without this little dog, I…I couldn’t possibly run my fashion empire!”
“I’m sorry, but he’s a pet,” said the accountant in a steely voice. “You can’t deduct him as a dependent.” The man was becoming less irrestible by the second.
“What about a therapy dog?” There was desperation in my tone. “You handsome man, you must realize what a comfort my little darling is in my business. The stress relief alone is saving me hundreds in doctor bills!”
“You have to have the correct paperwork, which you don’t have. I warned you about this last year, that if you wanted to continue to deduct your dog you had to get the right paperwork. He’s a pet.”
Bucky was curled in my silken-clad lap, as he is wont to do. At the sound of raised voices, he lifted his head with a menacing growl. This was not the way I intended to make my case! So what if the man was tall, he was a beast! An unfeeling beast!
“How could I be expected to remember something like that?” If only a tear would trickle down my cheek! “You should have told my assistant to remind me!”
“I did. You fired that one months ago, according to these W-2s.”
Bucky’s growling grew louder, and he was showing his little fangs. Any moment, blood could be shed. Hopefully not mine.
“And he certainly isn’t behaving like a therapy dog right now,” the abominable fellow pointed out.
I drew myself up, surreptitiously tightening my hand around Bucky’s Burberry harness. “That is where we part ways, my good man.” My tone was as steely as is. “My beloved therapy dog knows exactly what I feel at all times, and right now he is protecting me—no, Bucky—OUCH!”
Unfortunately for the sake of my argument, Bucky lunged forward, I jerked him back, and he bit my right hand, which was holding his harness. For the sake of appearances, I quickly moved my bleeding hand out of sight and sat on it, simultaneously taking hold of the Bucky’s leash (the harness was obviously not the best idea).
“This conversation is at an end,” I said stonily, brushing the growling dog off my lap and standing. “Send me the forms when they are ready. And I promise you, there will be repercussions.”
The accountant stared at me. “Very well. You should have the forms in plenty of time for April 15th. Oh, and be careful, your hand is bleeding on the carpet. Wipe it down with hydrogen peroxide when you get home. Dog’s mouths are full of germs.”
“Not this dog! His mouth is probably cleaner than yours!” With that, I wheeled out of the man’s office, keeping my throbbing hand out of sight.
I must confess, dictating this today, the bite is rather red and swollen…thank goodness last year I had a tetanus shot.
The nerve of some people!
Elisa & Bucky the Wonderdog