Monday, December 9, 2013

"The Dog"

“Mom, please? I want a puppy so bad.”

We heard this again and again. Day after day, week after week, month after month. We were even getting close to the year after year mark.

So we caved. We found a beautiful little lab puppy we named Emma. She was adorable. As I watched her cock her head sideways, she reminded me of those adorable puppies who only do adorable things on those adorable puppy shows on Netflix.

Ah, what an adorable puppy.

We brought her home. The first day was bliss. She cuddled with us and when she pooped on our bed, we told her she was naughty, I washed all the bedding until four in the morning, then we finally settled in to sleep, exhausted but fulfilled in only the ways a puppy can fulfill.

Then reality set in.

Morning came and my adorable puppy became inquisitive. Then my inquisitive puppy became naughty.

I did what any good mommy does. I put my puppy in her crate for a much needed break.

Fifteen minutes later, she had pooped all over her crate, her blanket, her paws, and subsequently my pants. I bathed her in the front yard. I’m fairly certain my neighbors were caught off guard as they have never heard me raise my voice to my son, the dog, the neighbor’s dog, the prairie dog and any other dog I could think of. Notice how my cute puppy became “the dog.”

Once “the dog” was clean, I set upon cleaning the crate. Midway, “the dog” got into my kitchen trash. Once again, my neighbors were worried. After I cleaned up the trash, I went back to the crate. She then proceeded to make a figure eight track through my kitchen and living room, with the Christmas tree being in the center of the eight. After another bout with “the dog” and the trash, she finally got the message (or so I thought) and went to sleep curled in a ball afraid she was to be roasted for the evening meal. I’ve heard there are places in the east as well as in Mexico that regularly eat dog meat. I complete understand that now.

After five days of running after “the dog”, I had had enough. I seriously considered falling on a knife and ending it all. I was frazzled. I was in tears. I was mad. I was ugly. I seriously had not showered in three days so I stunk. By the time the dog was asleep, I was exhausted. Who has time to shower when there is a puppy who poops in her crate? Not me, that was for sure.

The guys thought I was being dramatic. Of course they would. They slept in, or were gone, or were simply absent from my days with “the dog.” How could they know?

On Friday I called a family meeting. This has to end, I declared. I cannot keep this up. I’m fairly certain if I walked outside, a bird would nest in my nasty hair. I am done. Finished. I haven’t written a word in days. I’m not sure this will ever end and I’m pretty sure I’ll never publish anything, ever again. So, I did what any self-respecting mother does. I handed the responsibility of “the dog” to the one who wanted “the dog.”

Huh? He said with childlike wonder. But, I’m only ten!

My response? From this day forward you shall get up with “the dog”, feed “the dog”, clean up after “the dog”, pay for anything “the dog” chews up, and watch “the dog” like a hawk.

Less than twenty four hours later, “the dog” once again became an adorable puppy…in someone else’s house.

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