La Rosa Knows

To rent a house in Santa Barbara for a week. I would stay in it with my fine ass Man and a puggle we rented. I’d call him Oswald.

Oswald, man, and I would be carried down to the beach by our house staff. They would wear gold lamé shorts and we’d be wrapped in snuggies, because there’s a chill in the air and we’d rather be hot than die alone and cold.

We’d sit in matching beach chairs under an umbrella built for three. Oswald would dine on sea bass with the full head and eyes still attached. But he’d be mildly allergic to it, and Man and I would laugh and laugh as Oswald sneezed and ate.

I’d tie little puppy ribbons by each of Oswald’s ears, and Man would hold him still while I placed a sparkly purple ballerina dress around his fat, puggle body.

In the afternoons we’d all travel to the local stores for wine tastings. Once there, Man and I would sip on rich Merlots, and dry Rieslings, and when Oswald would finally become sick from all the sea bass he’d ate, he’d vomit on the sommelier. We’d all have to run out of the store, hand-in-hand, as we listened to the fancy wine man scream at us in the distance.

Man and I would retire to a nice long tub come the end of the evening, and Oswald would collapse by the fire, trying to ignore our passionate sounds of bubble bathing.

This cycle would repeat daily for a week without interruption. Except for mid-week when a dump truck filled with money and snickers bars would come to the driveway and deposit the booty, leaving us to swim in our treasure like Scrooge McDuck.

The week would end. Oswald would be returned to the pound. Man and I would drive back to LA in a convertible. And because I want a happy ending, we actually swing by the shelter and take Oswald home with us. Our little allergic-to-sea bass monster.

• Tags
• puggle
• beach
• santa barbara
• fantasy
• dream