We had a system. Each morning, around 8:00, I'd wake up and feed her. Then, around 8:30 or 9:00, I'd open the back door and she'd run into the back yard. I'd tell her to "Go potty" about three or four times, and she'd trot out onto the grass and do her business.
But apparently we had a tiff on Sunday night. Maybe it's just me. I'm not sensitive to dogs' needs. All I know is, around 3:00 in the morning, she came bounding into the bedroom and jumped into the bed with me. I woke up to that goddamn cold nose jammed in my eye. So I bolted up and shouted, "No! Off!"
It took about ten minutes, but she finally gave up trying to get up on the bed. She went over to her pillow and laid down, but didn't go to sleep. She just sat there, staring at me and whining.
The next morning, she came running when I put her food out, and I assumed everything was back to normal. But when it came time to "Go potty," she simply refused. I'd open the back door, and she'd run into the dining room. I finally coaxed, coerced, and shoved her out back, with her whining the whole time like I was some kind of dog-beating Nazi scum.
But once she was out, she wouldn't go. For about fifteen minutes, I stood there and kept saying "Go potty." And she'd just sit there on the concrete, glaring at me. So I opened the door and she ran back into the house.
I tried four more times over the next three hours to get her to go, but she just refused. In fact, she'd run from me every time I asked her if she needed to go outside. After my last unsuccessful attempt, I just gave up and went to lunch.
I was only gone an hour or so, but when I got back, I could see she'd been busy. There was a huge dog turd in EVERY GODDAMN ROOM OF THE HOUSE! I honestly didn't know you could pack so much shit into one dog! It defied all known physical laws! It was like some kind of quantum poop!
So I opened the door and ordered her out, and she bolted upstairs. I chased her around the house and finally got her out the door, with her yipping and crying like I was coming after her with an axe. And then, I set about the unpleasant task of cleaning up.
Lest you think I'm a dog-hater, or that Daisy's life is in any danger, I should go ahead and tell you that apparently we've made up. Fortunately, dogs have a shorter memory span than most of Bush's supporters and Daisy's back to loving me again.
Of course, that might just be the Snausages talking...
Anyway, words can't possibly convey to you the sheer, god-renouncing, nihlistic horror that I experienced when I got back from lunch on Monday. So I've tried to recapture the moment as best I could through the magic of MS Paint.
Daisy, you bitch!
6 comments:
All I saw at first was a little red x. So, being the technologically gifted person I am, I right-clicked and selected 'show picture.'
God, I wish I weren't so damn smart, because ... EW!
poor Daisy. She was telling on herself by trying to wake you up, you know. The crap had already been planted by then. I know dogs. They can NOT keep a secret--even on themselves. Next time she's acting all nervous and jumpy, big huge turds await somewhere.
Dog's bowels are like Dr Who's Tardis - they're bigger on the inside!
Just had a thought! - Dr Who might not be as popular over the pond - so click here to understand more!
:o)
Irb. It's been a week of me looking at photoshopped (yet, surprisingly realistic) dogshit. I can't tell whether I'd rather see this or Jack Chick.
In other words, your blog is kinda neglected again.
Personally, I'd like to see Jack Chick buried in dog shit...
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