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Kids
Need Pets … I Need a Freaking Break!
A few months
ago we rescued a wiener dog. An emotional cripple from birth, I
suspect … the Sally Fields of dogs. If we weren’t in
condo-bondage, we would have rescued a big ol’ dog, one that drops
turds the size of Indiana. Not that I’d have been thrilled to pick
that shit up on a daily basis. I just like big hairy beasts. Much the
same as I like my men … makes me feel petite, which is a rare
feeling since pregnancy destroyed my once lithe and perfect little
body. Enough of that. So this
Hebrew National with Thalidomide legs, we’ll call him Dopey to
protect the innocent, is not motivated by food, as are 99.9 percent of
dogs, especially dachshunds. He’s motivated by attention, MY
attention to be exact. The kids can deluge him with playtime, cuddles
and kisses. He doesn’t give a shit. All he wants is ME, MY accolades
and MY total devotion. Guess what? It ain’t about to happen. Not
that I don’t love him or enjoy his little spastic gimme-attention
dances … I’m busy. I’m a MOM, for the love of God. I don’t
have the spare time or the inclination to devote to yet another needy
beast, albeit one that actually is a beast and not just conjecture.
And he has a bladder control issue … The stench of
dog piss is a mighty poor substitute for the scent of wafting apple
pie and vanilla (my two choices of aroma if they were options and this
weren’t the year 2002 where no one outside of middle America bakes
their own pies anymore). On a hot, humid day, the smell of Dopey’s
accidents is absolutely immobilizing. Not that he
intentionally pees his whole load on the carpet. It’s me again. If I try to pet him
first thing in the morning or upon entering the domicile after having
been absent, even for two minutes, his unmitigated joy at seeing me or
actually being touched by the revered one that is I, sends him into a
frenzied delight that sparks a mini-squirt anywhere he happens to be.
This is usually on the carpet, although I’ve gotten lucky a few
times and created the magic outside where it doesn’t count. The
first week we had the dopester, I made the mistake of rubbing his
exposed, yearning tummy upon reentering the house. I was rewarded with
a shot of urine to the eye. My younger daughter got so hysterical
laughing that she wet herself, which just added to the problem. So our
house smells like a third world whore house and we are forced to
explain ourselves when company comes: “Excuse the stench, the dog
has a dysfunctional bladder.” Copyright - Reality Mom - 2002
And
Reality
Mom says you'll
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