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I have a dog. I didn't set out to have a dog. He came with my relationship. That's the way I acquire dogs. Divorced girls, which are the kind of girls I dated, have pets. My dates were mostly dog owners, with only an occasional crazy cat lady thrown in. I had a corgi for several years. He was a great dog, a real dog's dog, a ball chaser and a river swimmer. He could demolish any chew toy, no matter how indestructible the pet store had assured me it was, within an hour. He applied a maniacal intensity to the task, not stopping for a moment until he stilled its squeaking heart and left it a pile of lifeless Dacron on the floor.
I had a pair of daschunds for the better part of a year. These dogs were capable of amazing feats of sneakiness, like getting up onto the dining room table to scavenge food that had been left there even though their legs were only two inches long. They were also chronic furniture leg wetters and rug poopers, so when that romance faded, I didn't bother missing them at all.
My present dog is a Chihuahua. I probably would not have abided a foo-foo dog when I was a younger guy. Like many younger guys, I would have wanted a dog that was more of a reflection of myself, which is to say a big hairy mess. Now that I have been a Chihuahua owner for four years, I have come to the conclusion that a small dog will do anything for me that a big dog will do, and do it quicker and more compactly.
When I drop butter onto the carpet, for example, I don't have to lick it out of the pile. I have a dog for that. When the landscapers are power-blowing the leaves out of the condo's shared driveway, as they do every week, I don't have to bark at them as if they were a harbinger of the apocalypse. My dog has that covered. I don't have to carry my dirty socks around in my teeth. My dog will do that for me. When a stranger comes to my door, I never have to give that stranger a little nip on the ankle. My dog is only too happy to nip away.
We have to take care of my Significant Other's children's dog once in a while, because they take care of the Chihuahua when we leave town. This gives me ample opportunity to ponder the difficulty of owning a large dog, because this dog is truly huge. My girl claims she is a Great Dane, but there is nothing great about this dog. She is 140 pounds of tail-wagging puppy, unlike the Chihuahua, who is eight pounds of furry misanthrope. The big dog loves everybody and everything, which can hurt, especially when I am seated and she suddenly decides to use the step-stool of my testicles so she can lick my face. She attaches herself to me, because my S.O. is not nearly strong enough to manage her. I am the one who has to take care of her needs, the most pressing of which is hauling her outside in the (usually vain) hope that she will poop there.
The Chihuahua accompanies us on these fecal missions. I carry two bags, but I only ever need one, because while being outside is a laxative for the little dog, the monster dog is a master of intestinal self-control. She is content to wrap me up in her leash while I struggle to clean Chihuahua poo off the sidewalk. People laugh. Screw them, I think bitterly. Very bitterly, because I know when the big dog will poop. In the middle of the night, in the house. I will wake up and go downstairs and find a mighty obelisk of dog waste on the carpet. In the angled light from the rising sun it will cast a dark shadow on the beige of the rug and on my mood as well, because I never think upon awakening "Oh, I would love to get a grip on some gigantic animal turds before I make coffee this morning."
"She only poops on the floor when she is upset," say my girl's kids brightly, when they return from wherever exotic vacation locale they have left the big dog behind to visit, and I think darkly that if I adopted that policy myself they would think twice about popping off to Europe or the Caribbean every time they had the chance.
But I just grit my teeth and wait patiently until the big dog is retrieved, so I can return to the small dog lifestyle. When the Chihuahua jumps up on my lap, my privates are not pained; when I want him to be somewhere, I just pick him up and put him there; when he poops on the rug, a Kleenex and a shot of carpet cleaner has the house sanitary again in no time. I feel no anger toward him for these rare accidents.
He only does it when he's upset.
I had a pair of daschunds for the better part of a year. These dogs were capable of amazing feats of sneakiness, like getting up onto the dining room table to scavenge food that had been left there even though their legs were only two inches long. They were also chronic furniture leg wetters and rug poopers, so when that romance faded, I didn't bother missing them at all.
My present dog is a Chihuahua. I probably would not have abided a foo-foo dog when I was a younger guy. Like many younger guys, I would have wanted a dog that was more of a reflection of myself, which is to say a big hairy mess. Now that I have been a Chihuahua owner for four years, I have come to the conclusion that a small dog will do anything for me that a big dog will do, and do it quicker and more compactly.
When I drop butter onto the carpet, for example, I don't have to lick it out of the pile. I have a dog for that. When the landscapers are power-blowing the leaves out of the condo's shared driveway, as they do every week, I don't have to bark at them as if they were a harbinger of the apocalypse. My dog has that covered. I don't have to carry my dirty socks around in my teeth. My dog will do that for me. When a stranger comes to my door, I never have to give that stranger a little nip on the ankle. My dog is only too happy to nip away.
We have to take care of my Significant Other's children's dog once in a while, because they take care of the Chihuahua when we leave town. This gives me ample opportunity to ponder the difficulty of owning a large dog, because this dog is truly huge. My girl claims she is a Great Dane, but there is nothing great about this dog. She is 140 pounds of tail-wagging puppy, unlike the Chihuahua, who is eight pounds of furry misanthrope. The big dog loves everybody and everything, which can hurt, especially when I am seated and she suddenly decides to use the step-stool of my testicles so she can lick my face. She attaches herself to me, because my S.O. is not nearly strong enough to manage her. I am the one who has to take care of her needs, the most pressing of which is hauling her outside in the (usually vain) hope that she will poop there.
The Chihuahua accompanies us on these fecal missions. I carry two bags, but I only ever need one, because while being outside is a laxative for the little dog, the monster dog is a master of intestinal self-control. She is content to wrap me up in her leash while I struggle to clean Chihuahua poo off the sidewalk. People laugh. Screw them, I think bitterly. Very bitterly, because I know when the big dog will poop. In the middle of the night, in the house. I will wake up and go downstairs and find a mighty obelisk of dog waste on the carpet. In the angled light from the rising sun it will cast a dark shadow on the beige of the rug and on my mood as well, because I never think upon awakening "Oh, I would love to get a grip on some gigantic animal turds before I make coffee this morning."
"She only poops on the floor when she is upset," say my girl's kids brightly, when they return from wherever exotic vacation locale they have left the big dog behind to visit, and I think darkly that if I adopted that policy myself they would think twice about popping off to Europe or the Caribbean every time they had the chance.
But I just grit my teeth and wait patiently until the big dog is retrieved, so I can return to the small dog lifestyle. When the Chihuahua jumps up on my lap, my privates are not pained; when I want him to be somewhere, I just pick him up and put him there; when he poops on the rug, a Kleenex and a shot of carpet cleaner has the house sanitary again in no time. I feel no anger toward him for these rare accidents.
He only does it when he's upset.
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