September 1, 2010
Well, it’s been said that people love to read about other people’s pets. With that in mind, here goes (and my apologies in advance):
Last night, we came home to a sh*& storm. Poor little guy (the cocker/sheltie mix) had, shall we say, gastrointestinal issues the likes of which I have not yet seen out of him. As I was recounting the story to one of my colleagues this morning (it was obviously a slow news day at the office)—how I spent two precious hours scrubbing the floors and baseboards, carpets, and the little guys bottom (since some of it was caked on – sorry, you’re not eating, are you?), I watched her scrunch up her face in disgust.
I guess I can see why – I mean, I’m a dog lover. But if you’re not, well, my graphic description of this particular experience could be troubling. The truth is that having a dog isn’t always puppies and roses. It’s not always a Normal Rockwell illustration – or the happy happy joy joy save-me-Lassie it appears to be in the movies. Truth be told, it can sometimes stink. Literally.
Aside from having to wipe my dog’s ass and then bathe his rear side in the sink, I am reminded of all the times I’ve been outdoors, picking up a nice steaming pile while the little dog (and sometimes even the big one) sniffs at my back end for all the world to see. Now there’s a picture. I can only imagine how it looks to those walking by, not to mention the not much it does for my dignity.
But then I digress.
And by the way, I love my dogs. My snoopy poopy little munchkin heads.
The fact is while owning a dog is a powerful experience (a friend of mine recently described them “crawling into your heart”), it’s not always most cleanly, entertaining, relaxing or even commonsensical – especially in those moments where it’s never more clear that dogs are animals. From the wild. They don’t know how to use a bathroom. And without thumbs, they surely can’t change the roll of toilet paper (although, I’m not sure what excuse my husband has) or hitch a ride to the groomer.
And since they give so much more than they get, I described last night’s experience to my scowling colleague like this:
“I see the look of horror on your face, but think of it like this: If your bottle of Prozac crapped on the carpet, would you get rid of it?”
I think not.
So how are the animals in your life? Until next time!
For more Diary of a Writer in Midlife Crisis, please visit http://www.wildriverreview.co/columns/blogs/diary-of-a-writer-in-midlife-crisis