I picked up a Men’s Fitness today and read through the same regurgitated crap they print every month, sucking in my gut the entire time. It’s just a depressing rag to read, especially when you are compelled to eat junk food faster than our dog Maggie gobbles the cat shit in our neighbors yard. (Which I’ve read is normal because cats can’t process all the protein in their food. So, they crap doggie Powerbars. Doesn’t make it right though.) Anyway, that comparison got me thinking about dogs, and all their idiosyncrasies. Things we grow to love despite their ridiculousness and how their cuteness allows them to get away with extremely questionable behavior with nothing more than an admonishing chuckle.
Our dog Maggie, the Golden Retriever with a cat shit eating grin, has another addiction. They’re round, green, and fuzzy. And no, they’re not hanging between the legs of Oscar the Grouch. I’m talking about tennis balls. Life to Maggie is food, sleep, and tennis balls. I can honestly imagine her working the corner, turning doggie tricks for a tube of Penns or Wilsons. She kinda looks like a crack head now too since she’s worn her teeth down to nubs by gnawing these balls like they were a rack of babybacks from Chile’s. She’s an addict and she needs to be in rehab just as bad as Lindsey Lohan. She’s also an intense dreamer and sleep-howler and when in the throes of rem sleep will often break out in a banshee like howl that subsequently wakes up all of our family as well as herself. We all try to get back to sleep, but are stuck with images from Pet Cemetery running through our minds.
Chaz, our West Highland terrier mix, has a white mustache that is alway cockeyed making him look like an albino cross between Wario and Salvador Dali. His vices are uber sexual in nature. An example would be what happens on our afternoon poop run. See our dogs are on a strict schedule – they eat at 4:30pm, then they go out to take a dump around 5pm. But we know exactly when to take them because Chaz gets horny. He bull charges Maggie’s front leg and all 21 lbs. of him starts power humping like a tiny Ron Jeremy after four Rockstars. Maggie stands giant, stoic, and rigid like a sedated Brigitte Nielsen. Actually makes me think about what it must have been like with her and Stallone in the bedroom. He’ll do his hump routine three to four times before you can get a leash on him for the poop run. This always makes me think about Kingpin when Woody Harrelson is forced to sleep with his land lady and she says, “What is it about good sex that makes me have to crap?” Anyway, immediately afterward they hit the field and pop out yesterday’s kibble. Chaz’s other turn on is hot, sweaty, fresh-out-of-the-sock feet. You pop off your shoes and socks in front of him and he’ll start licking like he was trying to get to the center of a tootsie pop. I’m sure if he were smarter I’d catch him on the computer cruising German foot fetish sites.
Sofie, the toy poodle bitch that resembles a rat with a perm, has a deviated septum. The result of this is that when she falls asleep her breathing sounds like a liposuction pump slurping its way through John Goodman’s fat ass. She is also a compulsive licker and is not as discriminating as Chaz. If left unattended she would literally lick a hole in our leather sofa. And I’ve licked the sofa. Doesn’t taste like anything. Honest. I think maybe she has a taste bud disorder and can’t taste anything, so her behavior is like a paraplegic stabbing himself in the leg trying to get a reaction. Sophie is also a major shit disturber and will bark at anything and everything, including much larger dogs, apparently not realizing that to a Rottweiler she looks like a Milk-bone on four legs. I imagine her like a hyper bitchie Rosie Perez starting fights that her boyfriend is forced to finish.
Beau, our Yorkie, is mustachioed like Pancho Villa and has an under bite of Sling Blade-like proportions. He’s a real sweetheart of a dog, and he’d be perfect except for one thing. With Beau I have the Midas touch. I can’t give the dog a scratch behind the ear without him giving himself a golden shower and shooting piss everywhere. Even once he gets comfortable and stops his submissive urination he seems to constantly check his wee-wee for leaks, like you would check your drawers after any fart following Indian food.
Despite the strangeness of these things, they are what we love about our dogs, what set them apart. What it represents is unconditional love. This reminds me of a scene from Good Will Hunting:
“Sean: My wife used to fart when she was nervous. She had all sorts of wonderful little idiosyncrasies. She used to fart in her sleep. I thought I’d share that with you. One night it was so loud it woke the dog up. She woke up and went ‘ah was that you?’ And I didn’t have the heart to tell her. Oh!
Will: She woke herself up?
Sean: Ah…! But Will, she’s been dead for 2 years, and that’s the shit I remember: wonderful stuff you know? Little things like that. Those are the things I miss the most. The little idiosyncrasies that only I know about: that’s what made her my wife. Oh she had the goods on me too, she knew all my little peccadilloes. People call these things imperfections, but there not. Ah, that’s the good stuff.
~ Robin Williams as Sean Maguire, Matt Damon as Will Hunting.”
And I suppose it’s true. We’re just as weird as our dogs on many levels. The thing is, they’re just silent observers, well, if you don’t count all the yapping.
But hey, don’t think I’m getting to serious on you. I still don’t approve of eating cat shit.
