September 20, 2005

Hating My Dog

I was going to do a big link round-up of the "Spectre of the N-Word and its Implications for Free Speech on Campus and Beyond," but couldn't find one of the main editorials I wanted to use online, so nevermind. If you want to read one of the articles that sparked the idea, though, go here.

Plus, I've been too busy today hating my dog. I have a long and storied history of hating my dog, because I am convinced that she isn't really a dog at all but a miniature hellhound trapped in the body of a weiner-beagle. I should have known when I looked at the sign on her kennel at the ASPCA which read "Owner Deceased." I believe she killed that owner, and has been trying to induce a brain aneurysm in me ever since I brought her home.

First, there were two or three vets who were convinced she had distemper or parvo and would die. Alas, no. $700 later, she was fine.

Then there were the recurring bouts of gout. Organic dog food--available from California via mail order only, natch!--solved that problem, huzzah.

Then there was the separation anxiety that only happened if I deviated from my regular schedule For Even One Minute. And the odd coincidence that her fits of destruction only targeted random things I really liked, rather than the door, floor or furniture. She would take favorite shoes from my closet and destroy them in the middle of the floor. She ate my Nightmare Before Christmas Burger King watch, which really hurt.

Not to mention her eating disorder, which has led to the consumption of a pound of raw bacon and a fun weekend spent toting her and her inflamed pancreas all over town in search of a vet open on Memorial Day, regurgitated Spaghetti From the Compost Pile (complete with ants), regurgitated beetles (I don't know--don't ask), and the regurgitated corpse of a baby bunny. That was last week. Whee! Naturally, enough of these substances stay with her that explosive diarrhea is the result. Spot shot and the rental steam cleaner are my only saviors.

We do not speak of the deer leg incident, which will forever live in infamy.

As Gertie approaches the twilight of her life, the random messes are becoming more frequent, so we've started leaving her in her kennel during the day with food, water, and lovely soft blankies. Gertie, naturally, hates this. She pretty much hates everything, and always has. Which is good, because when she likes you she has a tendency to pee on your feet (ask Brad and Feral Girl about that), but I digress.

So Gertie has started hiding in the mornings. Today, she hid so well that Hublet and I were convinced she hadn't returned from her morning jaunt, and canvassed the neighborhood. I left water on the porch, a spare key for the neighbor, and called her to ask her to check on Gertie. The Boy was rather concerned--though I cannot imagine why. She doesn't have much use for The Boy, and he is continually annoyed by her begging.

The neighbor called me two hours later--after I arrived an hour late to work--to say that she had wandered over to see if Gertie had returned, and had called her name. Gertie then appeared at the window inside the house, barking. My neighbors are fairly convinced that Hublet and I are flakes anyway; I'm happy to know that my stupid dog has cemented that perception.

I hate my dog.

Posted by Big Arm Woman at September 20, 2005 03:28 PM
Comments

Gertie! I've always been flattered by the pee, as strange as that sounds. It's hard not to be when a semi-sentient being loses all control at the sight of you. That semi-sentient part is the rub with her, though, isn't it? I'm like the grandparent who enjoys the grandkids in small doses. As the "parents" of Gertie, you guys must be saints.

Posted by: brad k. at September 20, 2005 11:58 PM

I agree with Brad. There is a special place in the afterlife for you in return for your long hours filled with diarrhea, deer legs, and incessant evil.

Posted by: Belle at September 21, 2005 08:49 AM