It takes a village idiot to raise a blog.
Hey, all. I apologize for the lateness of today’s entry.
(As though you’re maniacally reloading the site looking for yesterday’s drivel. No, really, I give you more credit than that. Or me less credit. Eight of one, half dozen the other…)
Anyway, I started writing a post last night for you, and realized that it might be something I could try submitting to a local paper as a ‘reader’s column’ entry. That didn’t work out so well last time I tried it, but then I wouldn’t be much of a public nuisance if I just wrote one essay and gave up, now, would I? No, I’ll be bugging these editors, and hopefully others, for years to come. I have not yet begun to annoy.
But, of course, that left me without anything for you nice folks, which isn’t cool. So here I am to kiss and make up. But please, folks, no tongue, all right? I get enough of that from the dog.
Speaking of our prized pooch, I think it’s time that I told you about her little problem. Now, she’d kill me if she knew I was telling you this — and she’s a pit bull, so don’t think she couldn’t do it — but she’s a dribblah. That’s Bahston-speak for ‘dribbler’, of course. Which doesn’t mean that she has hoops aspirations; it means that she pees without realizing what she’s doing. Her bladder’s busted. She’s incontinent. A wee-wee machine. Drippy McPisspants.
In other words, a royal pain in the (soggy) ass.
But it’s not quite as bad as it sounds. Certainly, it’s not good. Urine-soaked floors are rarely ‘good‘. (Unless you happen to be on fire, I suppose, in which case it might be just slightly better than burning to a crisp. Only slightly, though.)
Anyway, it’s not as though her bladder fills and the floodgates open, spewing forth waves upon waves of nasty dog wee. It’s more like a leak in a wall, where a few drips and dribbles will ooze down from time to time, often beading on the hardwood floor underneath her. Pretty to look at, to be sure. But not cool to deal with, and hell to step in. My feet will never be clean again, and there are pairs of socks that I can’t even look at anymore.
To be fair, this really hasn’t been much of a problem in our new house. You see, after a few months of finding drippy piss spots in our old apartment, we had her checked out, and diagnosed with her embarrassing little problem. And we found some medication that seems to plug her hole rather effectively.
(Figuratively speaking, of course. The day my dog needs a daily vaginal suppository is the day she gets a hearty handshake and a pat on the head, and then finds herself out on the street. I’ll do a lot of repulsive, disgusting things for that dog — and by gummit, I have — but there are places I will not go. I’m simply not going to look up one day and find myself shoving crap into her hoo-hah on a Saturday afternoon. Nope, nope, and emphatically nope.)
Anyway, we’ve got her on these little pills that seem to do the trick. And she digs them, because they always come wrapped in cheese or some beef jerky type of yumminess.
(Speaking of which, how come I don’t get the same courtesy? When I’ve got to take medicine, or vitamins, or eat lettuce, you don’t see me getting it slathered in cheese sauce and meat-like product. No fuckin’ way, man — I’m expected to down that shit straight. Where’s the love for the man of the house, eh? Maybe I’ll start shaking piss all over the carpet for a while, and see how the wife likes that! Maybe then I’ll get a little free cheese or something. Yeah, I’m sure that’ll work. I’ll let you know how that works out, as soon as they let me out of the obligatory straightjacket.)
So why do I bring this up now? Well, if you’ve been paying attention, you’ll know that we left town for the weekend. We had a friend stay over at the house and keep the dog company. But — and here’s the thing — the friend doesn’t know about the pills, you see. So our pisspot pooch didn’t get her goodies for just about two full days. And now, we’re stuck wading through the consequences.
(Which isn’t nearly as figurative as I’d like it to be. Bitches!)
I think the worst is over, as I haven’t noticed any streams or drips today. But you should have seen us last night. My wife took paper towel duty, while I was in charge of floor cleaner and puppy placement. So I’d sit the dog down on a spot on the floor, and my wife would swipe the pee away from the previous buttprint on the hardwood. I’d spritz it with the cleaner, and she’d give it another good rubbing down. Then, I’d pull the dog over to another area, and we’d repeat the process on the spot the dog had just vacated. We followed her around from place to place like that for an hour, and finally sent her outside to wallow in her own pissy juices. We may have killed some grass that way, but at least the floors were safer. For a while.
And so, I’m on ‘tinkle patrol’ today. Every time the dog gets up, or moves, or wags her tail, I check for drips and streaks and flying drops of wee.
(Which is a challenging skill to learn, I must say — if you’re at all familiar with our canine friends, you’ll know that there’s always some sort of fluid leaking out of some part of their body at all times. Their noses are wet, their mouths drool… I’m not even going to go into the back ends of these beasts. So distinguishing flying urine from slobber or dog snot is really not all that simple. You have to take color, consistency, and odor into consideration, not to mention trajectory.
(If only to be able to avoid the putrid stuff.)
So it’s really a learned skill.
At the same time, it’s not something I’d put on my resume. Though I’m proud to be an expert ‘canine urine identification expert’, I don’t think that’s really something that’s often of use in the modern office. And if it is… well, I think I’ll find a different office, thanks just the same. I’ve seen enough dog whiz to last a lifetime already. If I’m gonna get pissed on at work, I want it to be by ‘The Man’, not some mangy mutt. I think I deserve that much.)
Anyway, I’m happy to say that the pooch has passed every test today with flying dry colors. I can only hope that we’ve got the hormones or steroids or whatever the hell we’re giving her back up to critical mass, and she’ll start pissing en masse again, instead of letting individual drops slither out one at a time. And hopefully, she’ll forgive me for telling you all about her little ‘secret’.
Hell, she’d better. I’m that close to just throwing a diaper on the bitch and being done with it. And if she thinks this is embarrassing, just imagine what walking down the street in her Doggie Depends would be like. None of the other dogs will sniff her ass if it smells like plastic and talcum powder. I have to believe that’s as low as a dog can sink, when it can’t even get it’s heinie huffed. ‘Yo, little ass-sniffin’ over here! Somebody, anybody? C’mon, tasty dog ass, right here ready for a big whiff! Nobody? Damn.‘
So she’d better hope she can keep a lid on her bladder from now on. We’re running out of clean carpets — and socks — so her clock is ticking. I just hope we don’t have to take drastic measures. Nobody wants her ass sniffed more than I do, but at some point we’ll have to draw a line in the sand. And she’ll probably pee on that, too. Pissy little thing, anyway.Permalink | No Comments