It's been raining around these here parts for donkeys. Which is sort of appropriate, considering we've spent much of that time looking after a small horse.
Ain't he stunnin'?
He's my Mom's dog, he weighs ninety pounds, and his name is Charlie. That last bit gets confusing in this house, because Dr. One Friend's real name is Charlie, too (actually her real name is Kathryn, and her father calls her George, but to me she's Charlie and she always has been -- except when she's Charles or Chas, or Chuck, or Chucklebutt. Chucklebunny just occurred to me this very minute, but I'm calling dibs on it for future use). So rather than have to say "dog-Charlie" and "people-Charlie" all the time, we've taken to calling the dog Tigger, because he likes to bounce.
He's a fun thing to have around. He loves it when I do exciting things like eat dinner and come home from work. He cleans up any messes as long as they're made of food. And once in a while, just for the hell of it, he knocks Johnny in the bollocks with his fwappy, fwappy tail.
But you know what I don't like about taking care of ninety-pound dogs...?
Ninety-pound dog's doo.
Seriously. How do you people do it? I look after Tigger just a couple times a year, and I look after Dr. One Friend's dog a couple more -- and I don't mind; I'm happy to be able to help -- but every time I do I'm counting down. "Okay," I think to myself, gagging and holding the plastic bag at arm's length by one finger. "Assuming he does his business once a day, that means I only have to do this business three more times... Two more times... One." And then I watch him out the window, silently begging him not to cock his fwappy tail.
When I was in my twenties, before people believed me when I said I don't want kids, I used to answer pushy inquiries on the matter with "Trust me, there's a reason I have cats instead of dogs." Now, it seems, my logic has turned on its head: if I wanted a ninety-pound thing I had to feed and wash and clean up after, I might as well just go ahead and have a baby.
A really, really, really giant baby.
Yeesh.
5 comments:
This is why I too have cats. No dogs. No babies.
i'm not so concerned abt the cleaning up etc as getting it out of me...gives me the goosbumps just thinking. (I am at an age where ppl still ask about "when" I'm gonna have a baby..not "If")
(gettin a baby outta me not a 90 pound dog...hopefully!)
12 -- Great minds think alike!
Sashimi -- Ah, you see? Until I got to the parenthesis, I read your comment with one eye closed because I thought you were talking about poo!
Well, ege, you haven't posted about poop for a while, have you? I'm sure DICK is a bit heavier than 90 lbs, so cleaning up after would be at least twice as difficult as "tigger". So now that the house is done and painted and all, you and Johnny have plenety of time for a, oh forget it, I just read your response to 12...
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