Dear Roxie,
Upon my homecoming from the Supermarket today, as I walked through the door with a 20 pound turkey hanging from one hand and a 20 pound girl tucked under the opposite arm, I saw laid out before me the evidence of gratitude. I saw that pit bulls, too, can give thanks. It is in the wag of their hind quarters that shimmies out through their tails; it is in the incessant licking; and it is in the fabric of three sofas ripped open with love.
This year, I know who it is that has taken over receipt of your doting energies. I see the bond form a tighter strangle-hold every day. You and The Boss. The Boss and you. She feeds you. You sniff her butt. She drops heavy objects on your back. You eat her socks. The two of you cannot get enough of each other.
I'm sorry I did not take you along for the ride to Price Chopper today, as I know how you feel about the separation. I just thought it was a little too cold out to leave you in the car, and supermarkets do not generally smile upon dogs in the turkey section. Perhaps I should enlist the practiced hand of a mental health professional to write the kind of doctor's note that would allow me to bring you with me, everywhere, in your capacity as my state-sanctioned "emotional service pet"--kind of like a seeing-eye dog, only for crazies. Because that is where I'm headed, buddy. Your love is slowly driving me insane.
Here's what I saw on the floor of the kitchen when I walked in the door just an hour or so ago: an empty ice cream container, a plastic dessert tray, the crystallized remnants of a doubly soiled diaper, and a host of brown baby wipes.
I remember that diaper when it was still intact. It was particularly foul. I threw it in the un-lidded garbage receptacle next to the front door with the intent of bagging it up and dumping it into the can outside on my way to the grocery store. Well, like everything else, I forgot. It's my own fault. It usually is.
I know you love The Boss and can't get enough of her toddling goodness. I know she feeds you every day from her own plate--a ravioli flung here, a waffle square tossed there. Just the other day we had to let your collar out a rung to accomodate your ever expanding neckline. But I have to tell you, Rox-o, it doesn't taste nearly as good second hand. Mealtime with The Boss is NOT a gift that keeps on giving. Just because we let you get away with sneaking morsels of your own solidified waste in the backyard does not mean eating our daughter's poop is okay. Because it is not okay. It is not okay.
You're thorough, though, I'll give you that. All that was left for me to clean up was a few shreds of papery plastic, some crystals and the wipes. I'm sure the bacteria that remain, so gloriously invisible to the naked eye, are nothing a can of Lysol (or two) won't eradicate. All's well that ends well, right?
Right, Roxie. Right. But I'm sure you'll understand why we won't be letting you into our bed tonight. Or maybe you won't quite make the connection, and will patter off huffily, in the dead of night, in search of something else to be thankful for. And if my negligence in appropriately dog-proofing the house is any indication, you'll probably find it.
I have nobody but myself to blame. You, I can't help but love every bit as much as before. Maybe more, because that's the kind of sucker I am.
May your Thanksgiving be filled with scraps never before digested,
ECR
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
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11 comments:
This makes me laugh a little too hard, and hits close to home. We got our second family pup, a katrina rescue named katie, 3 days before I found out I was pregnant. Our couches, the yard, and our trash bins have all been the focus of their "thanks" from time to time, and they also love to lick, sniff and try to roll on the babe, perphaps in anticipation of the yummy food he sure to pass their way someday soon. Best to Rox-o and you.
-jocelyn
Oh, you have a pit bull ... (I like to call 'em pibbles). One of my favorite dog stories is about by father-in-law's pibble, Arly, of whom it is told has only three synapses firing at any time. But he is a sweet, sweet guy. Aside from the fact that the dog is happy and loving and easy to walk (that last one my dog is not) but he's also as tough as a truck. In fact he got hit by a truck a few years ago, and while he had to have a few bones in his face wired back together I can honestly say the truck suffered more damage. He's still got all three synapses!
So I wish you luck in getting your designation. Perhaps this post will do the trick. It would help your mental state immensely, I imagine, to know that she's not at home loving up the furniture.
um...no doggy kisses for anyone. for a very long time.
ick. but it's damn funny.
I hate that dog.
Oh. No!!!!
You are a much better dog owner than I. I would have killed my dog, if I came home to that mess. Maybe that is why he runs when he sees me coming. That and he is a Beagle.
There is nothing quite like the love of a good pit bull. Even when they're not being so good.
Happy Thanksgiving to Roxie and her family!
OMG! Even the animal lover that I am, I thnk I would have freaked!
Oh Nooooooooooo! I was so afraid you were going there (or that she went there). Might be time to invest in a doggy toothbrush? Eww. (Mine would do the same thing if given half the chance!)
Oh man, that's disgusting. I have yet to have that problem and I hope it never happens. It's bad enough that one of them eats her own poop on occasion but baby poop burps is something I just can't tolerate.
Laughing my ass off.
Good for Roxy. She's into enviromentally conscious recycling. You can't ask for anything more than that.
You're not showing up in my bloglines, so I'm catching up, Binky.
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