My Dog is a Jerk
This is well documented. Astronomical vet bills (mostly of the emergent, *removal* nature, by various means), Petco receipts for designer food and increasingly barbarous contraptions for bark control, failing grades in behavior school, and even a visiting pet psychic (diagnosis: “Hilarious.” WTF?) tell the tale better than I can. But I shall try, for your amusement, dear readers – and to boost your self-esteem. For whatever shortcomings you may assign yourselves, I can assure you that my pet-rearing miscarriages* make your failures and inadequacies look Nobel Prize-Worthy. *please note: I have several other dogs and cats who are lovely and obedient, so let me just head off the judgies and cluckies with a preemptive “Suck it.” I am otherwise good at this.
Bucky. This is the name of my canine vexation. Named, obviously, for the dishiest shortstop this side of my Teen Idols of the 70s Someday Dream Team (the role of shortstop will be played by Willie Aames – but this is a subject for another day), Bucky F. Dent is truly the bane of my existence. Problem is, like most cankers upon the cheek-meat of womankind, he is also adorable. Twinkly, deep brown eyes, explosions of whisper-soft yellow fluff, an earflap-to-earflap smile worthy of an old-timey Gleem commercial, full-body joy wagging and the most endearing tendency to drop to his back and pee straight into the air in helpless elation upon my arrival home from even the briefest of errands – like, say, retrieving the mail – are all components of his Cuteness Kryptonite. Resistance is futile.
A brief rundown of his signature infractions:
Several times per night, Bucky emits a high-pitched, closed-mouth, sonar-like squeaking that only I can hear. This particular brain dagger can mean one or more of the following: he is tired, but not asleep; he is asleep and having a bad dream; he has to pee; he has to poop; he has diarrhea (again); he is hungry (again); he is bored; he is hot; he is cold; he would please like to snuggle. Since the whining will not stop until I have addressed his demands, I am perpetually sleep-deprived and wearing the glazed-over countenance usually reserved for new mothers and post-apocalyptic zombie-folk. Only without the smashing knockers and/or license to feast upon my human tormentors. It pretty much sucks.
Then there’s the barking. Dear God, the barking. If the military torture honchos ever succumb to demands for less “ethically casual” means of inflicting exquisite agony upon our enemies, I will proudly do my patriotic duty and lend them my dog. The searing, unendurable and constant vocal bedlam is the emotional equivalent of a violent fence-post impalement that you are forced to survive despite your devout and fevered begging for God to kill you.
Eating things that should not be eaten, ever, is another of Bucky’s fortes. He routinely parades freshly found bone fragments of ill-fated woodland creatures around like a haughty showgirl before ingesting them as I watch in frozen horror. Oozing dead things are an obvious favorite (did you know that, by some alchemical magic, dessicated lizard carcasses – like peas – seem to reconstitute when commingled with the other key ingredients in vomit? True story.). Cat shit, birdseed, glass, rocks, used (although I prefer *pre-owned*) underpants and feminine products – all on the menu and all acquired by illegal means such as counter surfing and hamper-diving. Luckily, my larger-and-in-charger dog, Karma, can get him to drop almost any of the offending snack choices he’s toting (today, horse poo) and hang his head in shame with one withering, judgmental glare. I have taught her well. Sadly, not even she can discourage the incessant, desperate dry-humping – she (and I) can only watch impotently as he unsheathes the pink lipstick, approaches his target slowly, and erupts into the frenzied thrashing of a pimply teen virgin in a Tijuana whorehouse. It’s a little embarrassing.
The result of all this is that I spend much (most) of every day thinking of ways to outsmart/correct/help/donate to science/discipline/”misplace” him, and failing, with great authority. I am at once beleaguered, beset, and besieged – resigned to defeat and shame for the next 15 or so years of my “nobody-will-ever-love-me-because-of-my-horrible-dog” life. But then, come bedtime, when he smells like Fritos and sunshine and falls asleep smiling, tongue-out with his head on my chest while he gazes at me adoringly, I snuggle into the comforting cushion of banana fluff and know, with certainty, that I will do it all again tomorrow. Gladly.
No comments yet.