Well, If You Didn't Do It, And I Didn't Do It...

October 25, 2003

Well, If You Didn’t Do It, And I Didn’t Do It…

So, I’ve got a dog. I’ve mentioned this many times before. I’ve talked about her nose, for instance, and her dubious bladder control, and her unfortunate odor problem, among other things.

But what I haven’t told you is how handy it can be to have a dog. Seriously, adopting our puppy is just about the most useful thing I’ve ever done. Oh, sure, there’s the love and the companionship and all that nicey-nice crap. Yeah, that stuff is cool, I guess. If you’re into that sort of thing.

But the real beauty of having a dog around is, of course, that I now have a ready scapegoat for just about anything. Not to mention a willing accomplice to help me cover up — or more likely, eat — any incriminating evidence. All I have to do is make sure that my wife doesn’t actually see me doing something dangerous, or dumb, or downright disgusting, and I’m in the clear.

Say I’m eating chips on the couch.

(Um, you know, healthy chips, of course. Chips made from… um, broccoli or something. Carrot chips, maybe. Baked cauliflower chips?

Aw, shit, who am I kidding? These are not the kind of chips that are good for you. They’re greasy, nasty, drippy, salty cholesterol wafers, all right? I might as well just inject Cheez Whiz into my veins, or hook up some sort of pork rind enema. Um, liquefied pork rinds, of course. Otherwise, it’d be all tickly.)

All right. Where the hell was I? Ah. Chips on the couch. Okay.

So, let’s further assume — theoretically — that I’m a big fumble-fingered slob, and I drop chips and chiplets and salt all over the couch, and quite possibly the floor. Let’s even say — just because we’re on a roll here, you understand — that I don’t have a napkin handy, so I wipe my greasy hands on the wall beside the couch. Not cool, right? The wife’s gonna be pissed, no?

Well, no. Not necessarily. Every bit of this heinous mess can be erased easily — and happily — by my furry four-legged friend. She’ll hoover the chips off the floor, and suck the couch clean, and lick every drop of lard off the wall. And wag her tail while she’s doing it! It’s like I’m doing her a favor — what could be better? Sure, the whole room is then covered in dog spittle, but come on — you know how dogs are. That’s gonna happen anyway. It’s the perfect crime.

But that’s not all. Not by a long shot. Even the dog’s propensity to drool comes in handy. I’m always patting the dog, or rubbing her chin, and coming away with smears of slobber all over my cuff or sleeve. Disgusting, certainly. But useful. After a few months of walking around with sticky goo on my shirt, it’s no longer questioned. People just accept any slimy crap as pooch juice of some kind. You can probably see where this is going.

So now, if I need to wipe my own mouth, or my nose, and I’ve got a sleeve handy — well, why not? No one will ever suspect what’s really stuck on my cuffs. Hell, I’ll even let other people use them. Friends, coworkers, strangers — what’s the difference? Of course, not many people actually take me up on it. The conversation usually goes something like this:

Them: *achoo!*

Me: Gesundheit! You all right?

Them: Um, yeah. *sniffle* Sorry. Do you have a handkerchief?

Me: No, sorry. But here — use my sleeve.

Them: Uh, that’s okay. Maybe just a tissue?

Me: Nah, but really. Here — just wipe it right here. It’s cool.

Them: Dude, that’s crazy.

Me: Come on! It’s fine.

Them: No! *snurrrf* That’s gross!

Me: Look, you need it. Snot on my sleeve, dammit!

Them: Ew!

Me: Here, I’ll just rub it for you. Just blow out.

Them: Mmmff. Gah! Get the hell away from me! Help! Police!

Yeah, I don’t have a lot of friends. (Why do you ask?)

Anyway, even if no one else wants to take advantage of my situation, there’s no reason I have to suffer. I can lie and beguile people into thinking anything is harmless dog drool. And it’s not just about bodily fluids, either. I can smear Chapstick on there if I want, or extra deodorant for an emergency.

(Though it’s important not to get those two confused. While it’s nice to know that I’ll never have chapped armpits, it’s no friggin’ picnic walking around all day with Right Guard breath. Blech!)

Anyway, it’s good to have the dog around. I can’t count the number of times she’s come through for me in one way or another. Hell, I’m thinking about taking advantage of her right now.

(No, not in that way, you pervert. I’m not gonna put on some Barry White and rub kibble on my nipples, okay? And under no circumstances will there be peanut butter applied to my nether regions. Do you know how hard that shit is to get washed out of your hair down there?

Um. From what I hear, that is. Yeah. Ahem. Moving on.)

But I think I do have a use for her. It’s not completely unheard of for her to have an ‘accident’ on the carpet, you see. And I’m sitting on the couch watching football right now, thinking that I’ve really got to make a number one soon. And our bathroom is soooo far away. I could probably just lean back and ‘rainbow’ it over there next to her. When my wife comes in, it’ll just appear to be another doggie tinkling on the rug. No problem, right?

Hmmm. Nah, I’d better not. With my luck, I’d miss, and pee all over the dog’s back or something. That would be a little tougher to explain. ‘Um… maybe she rolled in it? Or bounced it off the wall? I can’t keep an eye on her every second, you know!‘

Yeah, I think I’ll just hit the head, and leave the pooch out of this. I almost got caught letting her eat peas off my plate last night. I probably shouldn’t push my luck. I think my wife might be just a bit more upset over this ‘pee’ than those ‘peas’, too. You gotta pick your battles, you know.