I woke up this morning with a dog butt in my face and dried yak cheese in my hair.
I slept fitfully on a corner of 1/4000th of my King size bed while the dogs mounted imperialistic campaigns throughout the night and finally, took over the rest of the bed. Including the TV remote.
I'm wearing the same leggings I put on twenty-nine hours ago. I cannot remember if I peed today or not. I cry all the time and wipe my nose on my sweatshirt sleeve.
Robin is out of town and I'm a single parent with two dogs. It's been one day.
Seriously, I might kill myself by Monday night. I hate Louie so much. So fucking much.
I slept with the door wide open last night because Louie might not let me know that he needs to go out to poop in the early morning, and since menopause, I have been stricken with a condition in which I barf at everything that has to do with poop. Picking it up. And worrying about picking it up. Hearing stories about it. Blogging about it.
Hold on. I need to take a deep breath.
I decided to take the dogs on a walk this morning. At 7:30 we geared up and set out for the park. At 8:52 I was in the street, still trying to get the leash on Louie, whose PTSD seems to have been activated by Robin's absence. I went through a handful of treats, slipped twice trying to grab his collar, sat on my neighbor's porch and cursed Robin while my neighbor tried to coax the leash on him (Louie. Not Robin). We cajoled with Louie, reasoned with him, offered him cash and squirrels; we were sternloving, aloof, enthusiastic and, ultimately, defeated. My neighbor went back into her house and I went home (Louie followed, confused and unleashed) and promised Phila that I will take her to the park without her stupid brother later today. Which I won't, but hopefully, Phila will understand. She likes cash.
To make my point, I gave Phila a piece of beef jerky and did not give one to Louie. To make his point, Louie stole the jerky from Phila's mouth, gobbled it, choked and barfed it up. Which made me barf.
Did I mention that Robin is out of town for four days? Drove to California in his new car. Alone. He better fucking be having a great time there. This better be the best fucking funeral he's ever attended.
If you follow the blog, you know that I did not want a second dog. I didn't want a first dog. After the kids were grown and gone, and the family dogs went over the Rainbow Bridge, I was done. I love dogs but - to paraphrase Joni Mitchell - not like I love my freedom.
So we wrote out and signed a contract - stating that Robin is in charge of everything, and I can choose to involve myself in the dogs' lives according to my whimsy. I am not involved in baths or vaccinations or expressing anal glands. You know, pretty much what our marriage contract says.
But the contract doesn't lay out what to do in the case of Robin needing to go to a funeral in California. And I hate to be the kind of wife who makes her husband take two large Poodles to the funeral of a dear friend just because she loves freedom. Also - and you married gals will surely get this - for me to do this for Robin is money in the bank, guilt-wise. I have given Robin a gift. A big gift.
And now he owes me.
I'm gonna sit on this one for a while. Take my time. Consider my options.
Then, one day, I will come to him with a favor. And he will not refuse me.
In the meantime, I'm gonna slip Phila a Benjamin. She probably actually hates going on walks and is playing me like I'm playing Robin, pretending to be all put-out and shit at having to stay home.
The student has learned well from the master. Well played, Phila. Well played.
Nice article
Posted by: Hawi Moore | 06/08/2017 at 04:51 AM
good write up
Posted by: Suzie | 06/30/2017 at 02:03 AM
Sincerely I admire those people who are so connected to the dogs. Every morning there is a lady I see with her dog strolling before going to work. Just marvelous.
Posted by: Dorcas | 06/30/2017 at 02:09 AM