Friday, February 24, 2006
My Dog Is An Asshole
But I mean that in the very nicest way. It's pronounced A-yus-hole, and was one of my Mom's favorite words. She found remarkable flexibility in it. It was often reserved for me and Wayners in a good-natured way. Hell, it was a term of endearment when pronounced properly. Mom applied the word with one less syllable and decidedly less tenderness to preachers and politicians. That works for me, since I'm not a big fan of either brand of asshole.
So why is my dog an a-yus-hole? It goes something like this:
The weather was here yesterday...err....I mean, the weather was beautiful yesterday, so I decided to change from my usual eat-while-working lunch to a sit-down-and-relax-on-the-pool-deck lunch with my dog, Scully. I gave her a couple of milk bones on the way out the door so she'd leave me and my chicken tenders and french fries alone. It was a waste of good dog biscuits.
No matter how much I turned away from her, she managed to move back into my line of sight with that "C'mon, I'd share if the roles were reversed" look on her furry face. I held firm. It was then that I noticed a couple of errant dog turds out on the lush green grass. I couldn't eat with those land mines staring at me, but I couldn't put down my plate for fear of canine piracy. So thus began the delicate balancing act that is holding one's lunch with the left hand while scooping dog shit with the right. Not so savory, but necessary nonetheless.
I managed to hang on to the turd-laden shovel just fine, but a moment's lapse in concentration allowed the plate to list starboard momentarily. About half my fries abandoned ship and leapt to the ground, and Scully made short work of them. No problem. I just smiled at her as she entered deep-fried Nirvana for a moment.
Got me that time, kid. Nicely done.
I went back to my chair to finish what was left of my lunch, when I saw Scully take the all-too-familiar squat position on the lawn.
Geez, Louise, Scully! Like you couldn't do that before I went on turd patrol?
So, it was back to the shovel, plate still in hand, to scoop up the new offering.
Sheesh, that stinks! What did you eat?
No way was I going to succumb to the pressure this time. I deftly scooped up the steamers while perfectly balancing my plate.
Ha! That's why I'm The Master and you are but The Dog!
As I headed confidently toward the dumpster to make my deposit, I suddenly saw my left foot headed right down onto a renegade turd I failed to see only seconds earlier, several feet south of the main element..
What the?!? OH NO! Stage 3 clinger! Must have stuck to her ass hair just long enough to land here...must avoid...STEER HARD TO PORT....AIEEEE!
The trifecta of balancing dog turds in one hand and lunch in the other while unexpectedly juking a jake proved too much for me. The rest of my fries headed south and were immediately set upon by man's best friend. At least I saved the chicken.
I've always known cats were conniving, twisted little disciples of Beelzebub. A cat might act friendly, but it's just maneuvering for an opening to slash you a new ass crack or slice your furniture up like a Ginsu warrior. But I never knew my doofus dog was capable of that level of rational thinking and treachery. I know now that the whole "dipshit persona" is just an act.
I got my eye on you now, you quisling hairball. Fool the Crime Dog once, shame on you. Fool the Crime Dog twice, shame on me.
It's on.
|
So why is my dog an a-yus-hole? It goes something like this:
The weather was here yesterday...err....I mean, the weather was beautiful yesterday, so I decided to change from my usual eat-while-working lunch to a sit-down-and-relax-on-the-pool-deck lunch with my dog, Scully. I gave her a couple of milk bones on the way out the door so she'd leave me and my chicken tenders and french fries alone. It was a waste of good dog biscuits.
No matter how much I turned away from her, she managed to move back into my line of sight with that "C'mon, I'd share if the roles were reversed" look on her furry face. I held firm. It was then that I noticed a couple of errant dog turds out on the lush green grass. I couldn't eat with those land mines staring at me, but I couldn't put down my plate for fear of canine piracy. So thus began the delicate balancing act that is holding one's lunch with the left hand while scooping dog shit with the right. Not so savory, but necessary nonetheless.
I managed to hang on to the turd-laden shovel just fine, but a moment's lapse in concentration allowed the plate to list starboard momentarily. About half my fries abandoned ship and leapt to the ground, and Scully made short work of them. No problem. I just smiled at her as she entered deep-fried Nirvana for a moment.
Got me that time, kid. Nicely done.
I went back to my chair to finish what was left of my lunch, when I saw Scully take the all-too-familiar squat position on the lawn.
Geez, Louise, Scully! Like you couldn't do that before I went on turd patrol?
So, it was back to the shovel, plate still in hand, to scoop up the new offering.
Sheesh, that stinks! What did you eat?
No way was I going to succumb to the pressure this time. I deftly scooped up the steamers while perfectly balancing my plate.
Ha! That's why I'm The Master and you are but The Dog!
As I headed confidently toward the dumpster to make my deposit, I suddenly saw my left foot headed right down onto a renegade turd I failed to see only seconds earlier, several feet south of the main element..
What the?!? OH NO! Stage 3 clinger! Must have stuck to her ass hair just long enough to land here...must avoid...STEER HARD TO PORT....AIEEEE!
The trifecta of balancing dog turds in one hand and lunch in the other while unexpectedly juking a jake proved too much for me. The rest of my fries headed south and were immediately set upon by man's best friend. At least I saved the chicken.
I've always known cats were conniving, twisted little disciples of Beelzebub. A cat might act friendly, but it's just maneuvering for an opening to slash you a new ass crack or slice your furniture up like a Ginsu warrior. But I never knew my doofus dog was capable of that level of rational thinking and treachery. I know now that the whole "dipshit persona" is just an act.
I got my eye on you now, you quisling hairball. Fool the Crime Dog once, shame on you. Fool the Crime Dog twice, shame on me.
It's on.
