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A REAL CRAPPY
RELATIONSHIP
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Our two little pugs, Lucy and Rocko, hate me. There is no other
explanation.
Of course, the feeling is mutual. We are obviously in dire need
of some human/dog relationship counseling, but a quick check of the Yellow
Pages offered no help.
If there was any doubt that there was a problem between the
three of us, it was erased in the last 10 days. That’s when my wife went
on a trip out of town, leaving the dogs and me alone for a little bonding.
No such luck. In fact, it’s a miracle all three of us were
still alive by the time she returned.
Our problem is pretty darn simple. About once every week, just about
the time I’m starting to feel good about the little rascals, one of them
either pees or poops right in the middle of my house.
I don’t know about you, but that really gets on my nerves.
Truth be told, I can throw a pretty good tizzy fit when I see a tidy little
deposit smack dab in front of the television set. And our relationship
naturally suffers as a result.
These dogs aren’t puppies, nor are they senile. They’re 8
years old, in the prime of their life. It’s fairly clear that the only
reason they have an "accident" once a week is to torment me.
The worst part is that I don’t know which one is responsible.
I always assumed it was Rocko, who has faithfully earned the title of
"Stupidest Dog in the World." But recent events have led me to
believe it might be Lucy, "The Smartest Dog in the World," who may
have come up with a devious plan to frame Rocko.
The saddest part of all is watching me inspect a poop to see if
there are any clues as to who is the perpetrator. I’ve thought about
installing cameras, or sending it out for a DNA test. But instead I just
plod along, looking at size and content, hoping for a definitive answer and
finding none.
Anyway, it had been about a week since their last accident, and
I was feeling optimistic about bonding with them while my wife was away. I
got up on the first morning and looked around and saw nothing but clean
floors and carpets. I petted them both, gave them a treat, and sat down to
eat breakfast.
I think it was Lucy who disappeared for a few moments, but I’m
not entirely certain. But when I walked to another area of my lovely house—my
wonderful home---there it was. It was still steaming, and to add a little
insult, it was only steps away from the doggie door that led to the doggie
bathroom, meaning the outside world.
This was pure in-your-face war. I completely lost it. Since no
one was home and the doors and windows were closed, I went berserk,
screaming obscenities and pretty much trying to scare to death any living
organisms unlucky enough to be in the house. That would be the dogs.
They were in another room, probably high-fiving each other for
finally pushing me over the edge. But when I turned the corner and came face
to face with them, they weren’t looking all that smug anymore. Terrified
might be a better word.
It was not a good start to our bonding experience. Some dog
lovers might suggest that pooping in the house was their way of showing they
were upset about my wife leaving them alone with me. I respectfully
disagree.
I think they like to play with my head, and they were looking
for 10 days of pure entertainment. When I completely went over the edge, and
I looked at them like Jack Nicholson in "The Shining," they
realized they might have gone a little too far.
Sure enough, they were perfect angels for the next week. No
poops, no pees---everything outside, like normal dogs. We were getting along
great, bonding in just the way my wife had hoped. I was showering them with
treats and really beginning to like them.
As always, that treatment gets a little old for them. It’s
not nearly as exciting as watching me go bonkers. Because there it was, last
Sunday, right in the middle of the kitchen.
I looked at it and shrugged. There was a cherry pit in it, and
I think I saw Rocko eating cherries out on the driveway, but I wasn’t
certain. It could have been Lucy.
I didn’t care anymore. They eagerly looked at me for a
reaction, but it didn’t come. I cleaned it up, threw it in the garbage,
and ignored them.
No more entertainment for them. After eight years, maybe I’ve
got it figured out.
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