Tabby left for Chicago this morning and entrusted me to take care of her dog Chicken, a Chihuahua. That name is annoying because I have chickens so when I tell people about the dog it turns into a Whose on first? sketch.
Anyone: “Who’s the little guy?”
Anyone: “Actually he’s a dog.”
Me: “No shit Sherlock. His name is Chicken.”
Anyone: “Why would anyone name a dog Chicken?”
Me: “Maybe Dog was already taken.”
Anyone: “That’s weird.”
Me: “What can I say, the British are an inscrutable people.”
Anyone: “Don’t you have chickens?”
Anyone: “Are any named Dog? What about Cat? Or Squirrel?”
Since he is recovering from a rattlesnake bite to the face and because Tabby is a Brit, I’m going to call him The English Patient, AKA TEP. I’ve heard a few other good names floated, like Domer, Doggycephalpsaurus and Chris Isaak.
Aside from having a hugely swollen forehead, he seems to be doing okay.
The boys have been charged with watching him and Pugsly, AKA The Dictator or DICK because that’s what he is.
The dogs provide ample distraction for the kids who are at that point in the summer when they are sick of each other and bicker all the fucking time. The English Patient and DICK, despite living together, are snarling at each other because since they are on new turf and they are engaged in a battle for supremacy.
The only solution is to divide and conquer. Scrotus sits with DICK on one end of the couch and Testiclese has The English Patient on the other side. That whole, “Mom! My brother is hogging-the-blanket-touching-me-breathing!” thing is finally solved.
Tabby left me with several cans of cat food because the The English Patient is
milking his injury for all it’s worth off his feed and needs to be spoon fed. Tsk. He ate dinner just fine tonight. Those cheddar brats go right down, especially when being fed by hand on the couch.
I’m going to ruin that dog.
Yup, time to cut the crap.
Some crap from the shed next to the garage.
Slap bracelets that I got from the dollar store because I thought they would make nifty goody bags for birthday presents. The problem is 1) I don’t believe in goody bags, or at least I don’t believe that I need to give presents to every kid that comes to my house for a party. Frankly, I think it is a shitty new tradition. Guess what kiddo? It’s not your goddamned birthday! When it is your birthday, then you will get the presents. Are you disappointed? Suck it. DOES ANYONE WANT THESE? DONATE.
A too small travel cup and plastic containers some plants came in. DONATE and RECYCLE.
Contact paper ruined by being left outside for five years. TRASH.
Jesus, whatever! TRASH.
I’m over Star Wars. Fortunately, so are my kids. DONATE.