Monday, September 30, 2013

Clear and Present Doggie

Despite my endless love of the feline species, or whatever they're called, I am the proud owner of a small "dog". I used the word dog loosely because I am quite certain that the creature is a combination of Scrappy Doo and that homeless guy who lives under the Wilson Station: he picks random fights with anything larger than him and barks and howls at things which don't exist, possibly the ghost of Joe Barbera.

I am the cause of my own pleasant and joyful misery, as it was I who picked the crazy pooch out of the line up. He had such a handsome little pimp strut and I just had to bring him home. But then we got him groomed, and he let his little brohawk go to his head.  The moment this little bastard sees another dog on the street, you'd think I was on a date with a sober Joan Rivers.

Taking this accursed dog for a walk is a lesson in futility: there is always another dog on the same block, and the dog's owner is always some clueless mouth breather who doesn't see the large black man swinging a 11 pound, flailing, slobbering dog around heading their way. Even if they don't think that the presence of them and their pet is the cause of my dog's reenactment of Jimmy Carter's presidency, common sense should have told them not to keep walking in the direction of the flailing mess of human and canine.

Occasionally, me and the little runt will encounter a dog smaller than him, and they will proceed to sniff, hump, lick, and hug each other while I stare at the other dog's owner uncomfortably, not sure if I should be doing the same. I eventually decide that my dog has had enough of being reminded that he had his missile silo decommissioned, I break him away from the other canine sex offender and move on and wonder just how long the other owner would have stood their and allowed our pups to sniff each others respective taints. And this is every time we come across another dog my dog has decided he doesn't want to frame in my Man Cave.

The one joy I do have is playing with the little bastard indoors. He has terrible traction; the simple act of turning a corner sharply will send him skidding into the next solid material available. He can't move faster than a fat midget walking backwards down an up escalator without falling into an embarrassing heap of doggie parts. This is infinitely entertaining.

The little lady sometimes thinks she is in competition with me for his affection, and boy is she wrong. The little bugger gets away with anything with her, and have to eat shit for the same mistakes! Like when he grabs her bra with his teeth and runs through the house, that's some how cute and acceptable. When I do it, it some how makes me a "sexual deviant". I swear, one day i'm going to take him to the beach and let him loose and see if he will try to run off with girl's bikini tops, like in [INSERT 90'S SUMMER COMEDY HERE]. Then we'll see who's the sexual deviant.

My money is on the dog

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