Well, I’m sitting in my basement wondering what to write, while being barked at in very demanding doggie voices by animals that probably don’t even weigh as much as one of my boobs. Yes, I did just say that. We need some perspective here. My boobs are big, my dogs are small. And both control my life.
Every big boobed girl knows the agony of spending a day at work in a crappy bra. That will definitely control your life right there.
“So, how many kids did they say they needed to fit in this cafeter…ow – what the heck…stupid bra…anyway, so 250 kids per lunch period…Dang it! What is going on with this thing? Something is poking me…(covertly adjust)…a little better…now then…OW. (less covertly adjust)…stupid POS bra…how many fricken kids again? Oh yeah, 250 at each…GEEZ am I bleeding this time? (furious tugging and yanking)…crap, now I’m all discombobulated. I gotta get this stupid drawing done and I think I have a boob on the loose (covert tucking, more tugging)…ugh…now, am I good? Is it safe to move?…(experimental twist)…okay I think I’m good…so, where is that drawing..oh great it’s on the floor…” And by the time you bend down to get your paperwork off the floor, your bra has impaled your breast and you wing that sucker off, knocking out cold everyone in the department within a 5 cube radius.
Back to the dogs. Since we have moved, they have had a few adjustment hiccups learning to live in the new house. First, we made them stay with the evil veterinarian for two days. Seeing as they had never been boarded before, I am sure they spent those 32 hours waiting for some horrific calamity involving the loss of a body part they used to like to lick. Then we bring them to some house that smells weird, has no lawn, and where they have to all the way down the steps to find the door that goes outside, where they have to pee on…gasp…gravel. And not only that, but they just have a small, soggy pen, and not a huge yard in which to run around while barking furiously at squirrels, neighbors, robins, leaves, wind, imaginary burglars, and Hank, the Next Door Nazi German Short Haired Pointer. He’s probably from hell, too.
(Side note: We have a walk out ranch. The upstairs patio doors are screwed shut to prevent someone from falling 10 feet to the ground, because we don’t have a deck yet. Well, maybe more like 15 feet now with the moat*. But anyway, the point is, we made the dog pen off the downstairs patio doors, so now we have to troop down the steps to put the dogs out. Bear in mind that only Daisy will actually go down the steps. Lucky has to be carried. No, there is nothing wrong with him. He’s just a jerk.)
Here is the new routine: Mom let’s them out in their little pen, and stands there demanding, “Go potty. Go potty! GO POTTY!”, each command a little louder and a little less in control while they stand and stare at her, saying “no barky no engleesh”. In frustration, she let’s them back in, and then they trot up stairs, wait until her back is turned, and then sneak back down and pee by the workbench. Or poop on the landing. That’s mom’s favorite. She loves finding brown poop on brown carpet in her stocking feet. Ha! It’s very entertaining when she hops around on one foot until her big boobs flop in opposite directions and she knocks over a lamp while crashing into Dad, who is blinded by the flailing boobs.
Okay, that didn’t really happen. Really, just trying to prove a point. But the “Go Potty” yelling happens every day. Every. Day.
So mom decided to start walking the dogs a few times a day, to keep from having to mop up the indiscretions. Which worked for the most part, except when everyone gets locked in the basement for the day. By “everyone”, I mean the dogs and the cat. We of course wouldn’t lock up any humans in the basement, although some days we might rather that than going to work. And we wouldn’t pee on the stupid floor either. But I digress. The point here, is that in between munching on cat poop candy bars, the little menaces to society would pee on the floor, conveniently right next to the potty pads mom and dad bought for them to pee ON. Not next to. ON. And don’t go giving me that “poor babies, they have tiny bladders, and so much change to deal with” crapola. I know they are just tiny furry jerks.
So how do you deal with tiny furry jerky yorkies with adorable, sweet faces and liquid brown eyes that keep you from throwing them off a cliff? You buy them the biggest kennels you can find at Fleet Farm, that’s what. And you make them cozy comfy beds in there and you give them a pee pad and a dish of water and liver treats and hugs and pets and scritches when you lock them in there and leave for work, weeping uncontrollably because you are a monster for locking them up. A MONSTER, I SAY!
And then you speed home and hurry down the steps, and fling open the doors and they jump and leap and are soooo happy to see you. You put them outside in their little gravel pen, (Go Potty….Go Potty!….GO POTTY) and they tinkle just a tiny bit and run back inside and you go upstairs and 5 minutes later you need something that is still packed in a box so you go back downstairs and there is PEE BY THE WORKBENCH. And then, you take a better look at their kennels, and notice one pee pad is ripped to shreds in one kennel while in the other kennel someone has peed on the doggie bed. And that’s how you know they are actually just tiny furry jerks.
FLAILING BOOBS PART TWO.
Not really. I just like to say “Flailing boobs”.
But there is a part two to the dog saga. When we first moved here, the ground was still frozen. Because of that, our yard has not been graded yet. Okay, no biggie, they told us they would do that when it thawed. So now it’s starting to thaw. And the ground is settling. It’s settling so much, we have to jump to get on our porch, and we have a huge sink hole in our front yard and our temporary gravel driveway has a huge dip in it right before the garage, making entering and leaving said garage a bit of a technical challenge for those of us who happen to be technically challenged when it comes to driving anything other than a flat road, and you know a ripped off car mirror is just waiting to happen. This really has nothing to do with the dogs. I’m just venting.
Here’s the dog part. We now have a moat*. So what’s a castle without a moat? That would be a castle without a spastic queen in it who is worried the moat is going to eventually go over the drawbridge. The dirt settled so much along the back of the house, that we have about a two foot trench that has filled with water. Water that isn’t draining, mind you. AND, the trench is right outside the downstairs patio doors, so we had to put in a ramp for the dogs or one jump out the door and they would be eaten by the moat monster, which has so far claimed one decorative rock that was previously being used to anchor the pen, and one partial rug that was in place to help keep some of the dirt outside. The garbage can and the poop shovel were almost victims, but rescued just inches from being sacrificed in to the pit.
That means that even the small area we had is almost unusable, and we are now walking dogs about 5 times a day. Still, not such a big deal. Until Sunday night.
Sunday night we had gale force winds and sideways rain. But neither rain, nor sleet, nor snow nor spring twister will keep us from making the dogs pee outside. So here’s me, trying to drag two very reluctant 10 pound furry footballs across a sinking gravel driveway while it’s raining so hard I can barely open my eyes to see where we are going. Lucky has his front feet stiffened and planted firmly in front of him so I have to literally drag him and Daisy is huddled by my feet with her ears out like kites, and my boobs in full flail, while I am yelling pointlessly into the wind, “GOOO POOOTTYYY!!!”
Even more exciting was doing the same thing again in the morning only this time in near white out blizzard conditions. My neighbors now fully understand the definition of “crazy” that has moved in next door.
And here’s the final kicker. Once summer comes (like maybe in August) and we have some semblance of a lawn, it really won’t matter. We have two eagles and countless hawks and a few vultures that would LOVE us to leave the little jerks unattended. So there really is no hope for us. So go. Save yourselves. Buy quality undergarments and dogs large enough not to be carried off by birds of prey. We’ll be here, holding down the fort in our worn out bras and walking our smelly jerk dogs with faces so cute you forget to be mad at them. Send us a postcard. Maybe we’ll be able to start a fire with it to keep warm.
Tune in next week for: The Legend Of Zelda: The LG Appliances of Time