Suburban Snapshots

Despite the Fact that My Dogs Don't Read Or Understand English

Thursday, October 04, 2012

Hey dogs, let's talk.

First, listen. I know one of you is gravely ill. I'm heartbroken over it and despite everything I'm about to say to the three of you I will miss you every day once you're gone, Bertie. But you know, we've been SUPER extra nice to you lately; giving you more treats than the others, letting you take up half of our bed despite your recent snoring episodes, and only cursing you out a little bit when you beg to go outside and then come scratching at the door .003 seconds after I sit back down. And yet I continue to clean up turds that are distinctively yours from every room in this house. I'm taking care of you, Bert, and you are literally shitting all over me.



Which is an excellent segue: I need all of you to stop shitting indoors. You know, this is your house too, you little ingrates. The poop doesn't pick itself up and throw itself down the toilet, that's ME, the woman who adopted you (That man who lives here? I ambushed him with every single one of you and Stella before you. True story.), feeds you, spends money for your care, provides cozy blankets for snuggling and occasionally notices that your water bowl is empty. And listen, I can handle the random accident -- just today the smaller female human peed in her pants at school because she wouldn't put down the Etch-a-Sketch and walk to the toilet. I know sometimes we leave you for longer than we expect and you just can't hold it. But when you roam the yard for 10 full minutes only to come inside, slink into the kid's room and drop one on her shag rug? That is just inexcusable. And goddamn, why are the rug bombs always so mushy?

Also, I know you guys love my cooking, and I love tossing you the occasional chicken heart or sausage end. Know what I don't love? I don't love almost falling ass over tea kettle literally onto the boiling tea kettle because you won't stop herding me, waiting for food to fall. Boys, you are Dachshunds, not Shepherds. If you doubt this fact just try and climb the stairs on those fat little thumbs you call legs. Now, out of my kitchen before I get the squirt bottle.

In closing, let me just say that despite the above complaints we really do love having you guys around. You're class-A snugglers, you're freaking adorable, and you're very good to the smallest resident human (I appreciate your tolerance for her aggressive affection; I see the panic in your eyes, I know what you tolerate.) I'm comforted by the familiar sound of your paws clicking up and down the hardwood floors, though I'm not as fond of the familiar sound of your nightly synchronized butt-licking.

Dogs, I will fulfill my promise to care for you and love you until you're all neatly lined up in mahogany boxes on the mantle, and even after that. I'll continue to share my bed, my dinner, and my paycheck with you, and frankly, I don't think requesting that I not step in your crap on my way to a midnight pee is too much to ask in return. Deal? 

blog comments powered by Disqus