Wednesday, August 29, 2007
If the Anagram Doesn't Fit...
...then don't buy the dog.

A widely known fact about Labrador Retrievers: they eat everything.

I have been a scrupulous "What the hell is in your mouth, you little shit!?" kind of dog-mom. I have seen more throat than a super-model's vomit. It's just ridiculous.

"LEAVE IT! LEAVE IT!" Children hear me coming from blocks away as I wrestle with a mutating dog down the sidewalk. I swear to God, I just watched the thing grow another two inches in the last five minutes. I have been through three collars and one harness. I have also begun to realize the direct proportion between size of dog paw to size of dog shit. It gets bigger, folks. And it's not pretty. (Like there is such a thing as pretty turds? Never mind.)

If I am not yanking the leash out of the beast's mouth, then I am prying out the cat's tail, sticks, rocks, my vintage-tacky chair's leg, yarn, needles, shoes, expensive shoes, and even more expensive shoes. In the worst instances, I am extracting my own fingers or hems of fancy skirts. I am also yelling a lot. Screaming, in fact: "GET OFFA ME! LEAVE IT! LEAVE IT!" The vacant-eyed canine confuses "Sit" with "Come". He doesn't understand the idea of actually returning to his Mistress once he's off the leash. He'll fetch, all right. He even lives up to his title and brings the ball back. But once he has returned with his prey in his jaw, he becomes a quivering mass of possessiveness. I can hear him, in an annoying child's voice, saying, "Mine mine mine mine mine!" He bites big dogs on the ankles and then points at me when the beasts turn around. I haven't felt clean in weeks. My house smells like mildew, piss, and Febreeze. The crate takes up 90% of the kitchen. The other 10 is left to dog food, dog treats, dog toys, and dog dishes. Scooter is the bane of my existence.

I know many people own dogs, and if any of these dog-owners read this, they are saying all sorts of things to themselves, like: "Oh, it's just a puppy," or, "She should take him to obedience school," or, "Sounds like she's fucked." In all examples, these dog owners would be one hundred percent correct, but I don't want to hear any of it. I am dealing with the absolute most wretched animal on the face of the Earth--and I say this after six years of owning a she-devil cat from Hell. Quite literally, Delilah Amelia has become a sweet little Pussy Cat. She's a breath of fresh air. Her scratches and yowls and occasional bites are like delicious little fairy kisses after dealing with the Lab-mutt-demon.

He stinks.
He farts.
He barks.
He bites.
He pees and pees and pees and ohmigod, honey, he's fucking peeing on the guitar.
He chews.
He eats and eats.
He poops and poops and poops.
He poops in the crate, he poops in the shoes, Dr. Seuss just called to say he pooped in the stew.
He attacks.
He pulls.
He snuffles.
He snores.

It's almost like dating my husband all over again, except this time, I don't have the thrill of new sex. It's a curse, owning a dog. It's a Herculean task that I am almost ready to quit.


Except that when I arrive home after a long day of dealing with narcissistic harpies, I find myself licked and wagged to the point of utter hysteria--hell, the dog makes me so happy, I pee in the crate.

So I get it. Dogs take work. Dogs take patience and love and a hell of a lot of plastic bags. Owning a dog means giving up on order and hygienic floors. Owning a dog means sacrifice of time and friendship. Owning a dog is exhausting. Owning a dog can create tension among humans. But owning a dog is a lot like owning a living 'honorable mention' ribbon--it makes you feel like you're worthwhile, that you count, that the sun rises and sets on the schedule you set for the dog's bathroom breaks. Owning a dog is a little bit like owning yourself--finally, you have to take responsibility for something stupid and naive and a little dangerous.

In conclusion, 'dog' spells backwards says 'god'. But if god had anything to do with what comes out of the back end of this slobbering fool, then I retract any faith I may have had previously. However, if someone posited that 'dog' spelled backwards says "hope", then I would concur. A dog is all about faith and hope. And hopefully, my dog will stop shitting rocks.
Written by FRITZ
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Name: Fritz

Location: Detroit Rock City!
Where the weak are killed and eaten

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    What I Live By:
    We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time. Through the unknown, unremembered gate When the last of earth left to discover Is that which was the beginning; At the source of the longest river The voice of the hidden waterfall And the children in the apple-tree Not known, because not looked for But heard, half-heard, in the stillness Between two waves of the sea. Quick now, here, now, always— A condition of complete simplicity (Costing not less than everything) And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well When the tongues of flame are in-folded Into the crowned knot of fire And the fire and the rose are one. -T.S. Eliot "Little Gidding"

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