Last night, I found out just how lousy a watchdog our pooch is. Now, I knew that she wasn’t exactly vigilant — despite being a pit bull, for crissakes — but I had no idea just how useless she really is.
See, I worked late last night. Really late. So late, it was actually early before I got home — to the tune of about twenty after twelve. Now, usually when I come home that late, one — or both — of two things are happening: either I’ve been out tippling, so I’m not as concerned about what the dog’s doing as, say, negotiating the staircase without falling on my forehead, and/or the dog’s sleeping on the couch downstairs. No, she’s not supposed to sleep on the couch. But she always jumps down before I get close enough to smack her. Plus, duuu-uuh — she’s a pit bull. She can sleep whereever the hell she wants.
Anyway, last night I came home — sober, exhausted, alert and observant — and the dog was sleeping on her pillow upstairs in the bedroom. Yes, she has a pillow. She’s our little pit bull princess. Hey, shut up! You enjoy having all those fingers still attached? Then you try taking the pillow away from her. Princess Puppykins has got frigging fangs, people.
Back to the story, though. When I got in, she was sleeping upstairs. When I opened the front door — sleeping upstairs. Closed the door — sleeping upstairs. Tripped over my wife’s shoes… poured a glass of milk in the kitchen… made a bunch of unnecessary noise putting the glass in the sink — sleeping up-fricking-stairs. Useless. She wasn’t even around to lick up the milk I spilled. And she calls herself a dog. Pfffffttttt.
Now, for you poochophiles out there who might jump to my doggie’s defense, I’m way ahead of you. I even thought to myself, just before falling asleep wondering what murderous looting louts the dog had let in before me, that maybe when I approached the house, she smelled me. Dog’s snoots are uber-sensitive, sure. So maybe she caught my scent, and realized there was nothing to get her canine hackles up about. I can imagine her fuzzy-headed thought process:
‘Hrm? Somebody on the porch? *sniffle* *snurf* Lessee… stale beer… desperation… and, what’s that… *snrrrrffff*! Ah, yes — fat ass sweat. Must be Charlie. And no Snausages on him. I’m goin’ back to sleep.‘
Nice, eh? Booze, desperation, and eau d’sweaty serriere. There’s man’s best friend for you. And how the hell does she know that’s me, anyway? Sure, sure, it’s accurate, probably — but I’m not the only one, dammit. For all she knows, it’s Tom Arnold sneaking in to raid the fridge. Or Jim Belushi coming by to fart on the couches. And eat all the Snausages, for that matter. Bitch should at least be looking out for herself. But no.
And now… I realize I probably shouldn’t have told you about this. For one thing, a couple of you know where I live. And it’s probably not too hard for the rest of you to find out. And now you know we have a lousy watchdog. And Snausages. And fart-free couches! Shit! Don’t any of you get the idea of coming over here to mess with our stuff, dammit. I can always train the damned dog — you don’t know. Or buy a watchtiger, or a watchcobra, or something. I’m serious. Ain’t nobody farting on these couches but me, you got me?
Well… me, and the dog, most likely, while she’s sleeping there most nights. Fucking little princess, she is. Lousy dog.Permalink | 5 Comments