Day Three of dog sitting. Holy shit. Why do people have dogs? I can’t even remember.
When a childless person tells me that having dogs is pretty much just like having kids, I just want to slap the shit out of them. It’s not. Kids are better and worse. If nothing else, they eventually learn how to use a flush toilet which dogs will never do. Nor can you stuff them in a crate with a bowl of food while you go to a movie. A sitter will run you at least $40.
See? Better and worse.
But you know what? Tabby’s dogs come pretty close, at least as far as the total lack of personal space thing is concerned.
Yeah, so that’s me whenever I go to the bathroom. If it weren’t for the fact that Blue is scared of the floors, he’d be in there too, smacking his lips and annoying me.
Here’s what it’s like when I walk anywhere in my house.
You wouldn’t know it by the way they act, but Dictator and The English Patient come from the same house yet they fight constantly. That snarling sound coming from Domer? It never fucking ends. In a way it kind of reminds me of my boys when they are extra at each other’s throats.
I think all this jockeying for supremacy has to do with the new location. They are both vying for my favor despite my detachment parenting techniques, i.e. verbal abuse and mild violence. I thought Lonny was going to blow a gasket with Doggycephalosaurus sprayed a giant pile of outgoing packages.
I Face-Timed with Tabby this morning so she could tell them off in, uh, British.
“Sod off you little buggahs! Pugsly! Shut up you rat!” I miss Tabby.
But not more than she misses me and Boulder! Sheesh, I thought I was miserable. She’s stuck in some Chicago suburb where pizza sauce counts as a vegetable. I tried to prepare her for what was to come.
“It’s the midwest, Tabby. You’ve only been to Boulder.”
“That’s fine, I’m looking forward to it.”
“Yeah but, it’s different out there. And it’s really hot.”
“I like the heat.”
“You are from England, you have no idea what heat is until you add 100% humidity to it.”
“I’ll be fine.”
I should have told her to pack food because now my already really skinny friend is claiming that there is nothing to eat. “They don’t even have an organic section in the market!” she wailed. I don’t think she’s ever experienced a real suburb either, the kind that just goes on and on …
I have to resist the temptation to mock her Boulder snobbery because if it had been me I would have thrown my hands up and wallowed in cheese dip because when in Rome.
However, when I was a hard-core vegetarian in Germany and all they ate was veal (no joke, every fucking meal) and I subsisted on bread and cheese and didn’t take a crap for a week, I recall feeling the same way she did. How do people live like this? Don’t they like to poop? I like to poop. Only she likes organic produce. I get it.
Wow, I’ve been talking a lot about going to the bathroom and taking pictures in there. Time to cut the crap.
A tchotchky that a rental client left. DONATE.
Buffy The Vampire Slayer box sets. Lonny picked them up at a garage sale because he thought I might like them. I don’t. DONATE unless you want them.
More DVDs I don’t want. Plus, isn’t that what Netflix is for? DONATE unless you want them.
Don’t panic, this is my second widescreen collector’s edition of The Big Lebowski. Great flick. The other one is Horton Hears a Who. DONATE unless you want them.
A fitted king sized sheet. DONATE.
Featured image courtesy of http://diaryofadogtrainer.wordpress.com/tag/rescue-dogs/