There are these two weirdos who live in our house. They stink, they always try to eat our food, and they become wildly agitated every time we leave the house. We manage them by locking them in cages at night, and we let them out in the morning, when we think they won’t be able to control their bladders anymore. They are our dogs.
How to describe them? Maggie is a three-year-old American Eskimo with uncontrolled anxiety and Pepper is a one-year-old Golden Retriever with a flatulence problem. You might find me insensitive, describing my family members by their race and medical issues. That’s just how it’s done.
Why do we have these dogs? Because we have children, and children love dogs. I heard a story yesterday about one of my twelve-year-old daughter’s friends who is threatening to move out so she can get her own place, and therefore, a dog. Her parents’ response: knock yourself out. Hit the bricks, kid. Let us know how that works out for you.
The point is- kids love dogs. LOVE them. More than life, more than oxygen, more than chocolate cake. I mean, kids don’t love dogs enough to, you know, take care of them in any way, but if I threaten to get rid of the mongrels, look out. Hellfire and lightning rain down on daddy.
I suppose I’m not being entirely fair. The kids will feed the dogs, if I ask them to. They may forget and have to be reminded, but eventually they wander into the laundry room and scoop up the insanely expensive Science Diet my wife insists on. Our eleven-year-old daughter loves to give the dogs a bath. However, she’s not quite big enough to manhandle the 80-lb Golden, force her into the tub, and dry her off. But she does try.
I’m worried that Pepper is clinically depressed. She constantly tries to kill herself by eating things like LOL Dolls, stuffed chew toys, and lamp cords. So far, she’s survived, which makes me think scientists should study her digestive tract. This miracle of science can pass an entire stuffed animal, a McDonalds toy, and a toothbrush all in one day. If the engineers could copy Pepper’s colon, they could design plumbing incapable of plugging up.
What is the real problem here?
I guess the main bone of contention nagging me today is the poop. Specifically, picking up the poop on a walk. The kids can’t really handle the dogs on a walk by themselves. Pepper could yank Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson off his feet when she sees one of those goddamned squirrels, and Maggie never saw a child she didn’t want to bite. So, Cathy and I end up walking the dogs, in the interest of avoiding lawsuits and protecting my children’s’ rotator cuffs.
We live in a beautiful suburban neighborhood, filled with gorgeous trees and little lakes. And children and other dogs Canada geese and goddamned squirrels. So, Cathy and I are on high alert while walking the dogs. Actually, she’s on high alert. I’m commenting on how the neighbor’s lawns look better than ours, and my wife is wrestling with the dogs. I’m not allowed to hold a leash anymore. Don’t ask.
Our beautiful suburban neighborhood has rules. Namely, when your dog drops a deuce, you have to pick it up. If you’ve never been forced to suffer through this indignity, it means watching the little bitch (that’s a technical term for a female dog, I’m not being vulgar), squeeze out a runny turd, then putting your hand in a thin plastic bag, and using it to comb the warm, gooey, digested Science Diet out of your neighbor’s grass. Then you cuss out the little bitch for being such an asshole, and tie the baggie shut so you don’t have to smell it. Finally, you carry the bag of shit half a mile to the nearest trash can. If anyone sees you, you have to decide between trying to hide your prize so they don’t know how emasculated you are, or maybe you boldly wave the baggie of poo in the air, so they know you’re a good neighbor who doesn’t leave dogshit in their yard. Or in the commons area, which is already completely coated with green goose poop.
Because I’m an optimist, I remind myself that the kids are happy, so I’m happy. And, I only have about another thirteen years with these dogs, so I’d better make the best of it.
Your posts are hilarious and soooo true! Life in the fast lane is the best🤪