I'm always bragging about our fucking dog. She's so cute! She's so quiet! She's so gentle! She never gets up on the furniture or chews our shoes or eats things off our plates or shits indoors! And the reality is that yes, compared to most dogs, our dog is a dream and I love her. But you know what? Sometimes, Emmy Lou is a giant douche.
Exhibit A: Hitting the Juice
The other day, Katr and I were enjoying a nice brunch in the living room.
Katr: What's that on the floor there?
Me: What?
Katr: That thing...on the floor.
It was THIS:
Emmy Lou had been assiduously chewing on something in the living room the night before. I had assumed it was the toy I'd seen her with earlier in the evening. But it appears that Chubby's charms paled in comparison to the power cord from our Sirius satellite radio boombox. Which, by the way, was plugged in.
I don't know how she made it through the whole cord without being electrocuted. Presumably she pulled the plug out before the mastication commenced in earnest. If not, our dog may have super powers! Regardless, checking her crap for copper wire has been a real treat. And now we can't listen to the radio, you JAG-OFF!
Exhibit B: Rockstar
If Emmy had her way, she would sniff every bush, tree, lamp post, blade of grass and construction worker we pass on our daily hour-long walks. If I had *my* way, we would stop at the beginning for a bathroom break and then confine our sniffing to the dog park we hit on the way home.
My solution is to compromise and pick a few sniff spots along our various routes. Generally, Emmy goes along with my compromise. But the nicer the weather gets, the more she wants to sniff and she thinks the best way to accomplish her olfactory goals is to drag behind me like a fucking rock in the hopes that I will stop and let her sniff EVERYTHING.
I enjoy walking. I don't enjoy walking and dragging a forty pound dog for an hour a day. I also don't enjoy hearing "Hey lady, that dog doesn't want to go with you." and "Aw, poor dog!" and "That poor dog doesn't want to go with that lady." It's not like I'm walking that fast, people - in fact, for most of you, my "brisk walk" is the equivalent of your "sleeping". There's nothing wrong with the dog. She's just being a jerkwad.
Exhibit C: Emissions
It may be difficult for some of us to pinpoint when exactly we became our parents. Not me. I officially became my mother last night at 8:27 p.m., when I interrupted the finale of 24 to ask "WHO is FARTING?"
Three guesses:
Whenever I find myself getting worked up over the minor misdoings of our dog, I like to go to a certain shar pei forum and read about other's people's dog problems. Today, I read about a shar pei named Wiggles whose owner is looking for a muzzle to fit his wrinkly face. Aggression problems? No no. Wiggles needs a muzzle because he keeps eating other dogs' craps when his owner isn't looking and then, once he's back at home, he barfs miscellaneous turds on her bed.
Ah, Emmy. Thank you for not barfing turds on our bed. All is forgiven. For now.