PB & Jilted

August 25, 2006

Some days when I go to work, I take our pooch to ‘doggy day care’. I do this because she owns our asses. My wife and I rescued the mutt from the pound, gave her a fluffy bed and three square meals of ground-up horse meat and cereal filler a day, but still she owns our asses. Like we owe her, or something.

(Maybe she’s still mad about that whole ‘spaying’ thing. Jeez, so we paid a guy to yank out your ovaries. How long can you hold a grudge? Get over it already.)

“Peanut butter she wants; peanut butter she gets. It keeps her happy, and I do enjoy having something other than my upper lip to hold up my sunglasses.”

On days when I don’t take the dog with me, she stays home — and sleeps on the couch, like she’s not supposed to. She probably also scoots her fuzzy ass all over our bed pillows, to teach us a lesson. I wouldn’t be surprised to come home early one day, and find the bitch throwing a canine kegger of some kind, with drunken German shepherds, loose-moraled retrievers, and naked poodles passed out on the lawn. I wouldn’t put it past her.

Anyway, on days where she’s home alone, I make sure to leave the mutt some peanut butter stuffed inside her favorite rubber toy. Why? Because she owns our asses, like I said.

Also, she’s a pit bull. And when she can sense that I’m about to leave the house, she cocks her fuzzy little head and wags at me very reasonably, with a look that says:

‘I’ve decided, for the moment, not to rip your nose off your face and eat it. I think that deserves a tasty treat in compensation.

Of course, if you’d rather sort through dog turds for a week trying to find bits of your honker to sew back on, you just let me know. I’ll be over here with the fangs and the claws. Your choice.‘

Peanut butter she wants; peanut butter she gets. It keeps her happy, and I do enjoy having something other than my upper lip to hold up my sunglasses. So it works out for everyone.

There’s another party to this little dance, though. The missus and I work some pretty long hours, so we have a walker come in to check on the pooch while we’re gone. After a couple of years of this arrangement, one thing is clear — the dog owns her ass, too. The walker is fully on-board with the peanut-butter-in-the-toy bribe, and unfailingly leaves a second snack for the dog when she leaves. Apparently, the walker’s rather attached to her schnozz, too.

So, here’s the thing. Today, I left the mutt home as usual, with her peanut butter breakfast. When I got home, I saw a note from the walker. Usually these are along the lines of:

‘‘Hi — I walked the dog. She decided not to eat me. Have a great weekend.‘

Today’s note, however, read:

‘Hi — I’m filling in for the regular walker. I couldn’t find your dog’s toy, so I gave her kibble from her food bowl as a treat.‘

Uh oh.

I fully expected to find the replacement walker’s mangled, noseless body in the yard somewhere. Regular food doesn’t count as a ‘treat’ — hell, that doesn’t even work on people. When you reward yourself for acing a test or getting a promotion or going a whole day without drinking, you eat ice cream or cookies or something special. You don’t reach for the saltine crackers or the frozen peas. That’s just crazy.

I could just see my dog — that’s my pit bull dog, remember — sitting expectantly on the kitchen linoleum, waiting for her peanut buttery treat.

And then this strange woman in our house walks past the PB toy under the couch…

(‘Oh, nuh-uh. You get your ass back there and fish that thing out, miss thang.‘)

…and reaches into the food bowl sitting in the kitchen…

(‘Yo, I don’t see no peanut butter in that dish, lady. Don’t you make me come over there.‘)

…and pulls out chunks of dry Alpo, like it’s some kind of candy…

(‘Bitch, I know you ain’t gonna feed me that.‘)

…stuffs the kibble in the dog’s mouth, and leaves.

(‘OH NO YOU DI’N’T!!!‘)

I’m guessing the woman got out before the dog knew what happened. At the very least, the mutt would’ve piddled on her pants leg in protest. Or maybe she knows enough to blame me, since I’m the one who pays the walker in the first place.

I don’t know. But I’m sleeping with one nostril open tonight, just in case. Hell hath no fury like a peanut butter-less bitch scorned. Eep.