dogs

All posts tagged dogs

Lost Dogs

Published August 6, 2015 by April Fox

This feels empty

as if the dogs have all gone home

and left us to our own devices,

on our own to deal with the

monsters and the maniacs

hiding in the shadows

and even with the lights all on,

the television blaring comedy and news into our deconstructed brains,

there is a silence and a darkness

that the hounds have left behind.

And in the stillness, after locking all the doors

and silencing the ringers and clicking off the TV

and shuttering the windows, and pulling down the blinds

in the air we’re left to breathe

we find our solace

and remorse.

The Dog Ate My… What?

Published February 18, 2012 by April Fox

Don’t let that sweet face fool you-behind those big eyes and the cute fuzzy mohawk is a fetish that’s ruining my life.

Mutt has settled in pretty well in the week and a half since we brought him home. He’s conquered his initial shyness and now darts around the house like a weasel on meth, leaping onto furniture and assaulting our faces with his tiny mutt tongue. He largely ignores his chew toys and rawhide bones, opting instead to steal from his human companions and stash his treasures in the back of his little red hut. Among other things, he’s absconded with a cardboard box half as big as he is, a highlighter, one of the cat’s plastic bell-in-a-ball toys, and an issue of National Geographic. He has a mohawk and no legs and acts every bit as strange as he looks.

He’s a pretty good fit for our household full of odd things like writers and musicians and children.

Mutt does have one habit that’s rather disturbing, though.

Mutt likes my underwear.

It started with my bras. My favorite bra, to be specific. Granted, it is pretty cute-sparkly straps and printed with peace signs-so I can’t really blame him for coveting it, but he’s a dog, and besides that he’s a boy dog. He has even less boobage than I do. Still, he comes trotting through the living room with my bra, one cup in his mouth, the other trailing behind him, and he’s looking as dignified as possible when you have a sparkly bra hanging from your underbite.

“What the fuck, dog.” I say.

Mutt smiles around my bra.

“Dude, seriously. Drop it.”

There is dog spit on my bra. Gross.

“Dog. Give me the bra.”

More smiles. I end up having to pry his jaws open and remove the bra from his grasp.

Did I mention gross?

The next day I’m chilling in the kitchen when beloved calls from the living room, “Sweetie, the dog has your bra again.”

Repeat above what the fuck, dog scenario.

I’m starting to think there’s something weird about this creature.

I finally got the bright idea to start putting my bras up instead of just flinging them haphazardly around the room when I take them off. (Plus it greatly reduces the number of times beloved gets to sign off chats with his friends by saying, “Just got hit in the back of the head by a bra, gotta go,” which is a definite plus for me, even if does knock a few Awesome Dude Points off his score.)

Problem solved, right?

Not even close.

The next day: “Sweetie? I think the dog is eating your underwear.”

I go to investigate and sure enough, one of the pairs I just took off the line and tossed on the chair is being devoured by this creepy little demon dog. Upon closer inspection, I discover that it’s not just any old pair, but one of my favorite pairs. They’re teeny and striped and pretty much guaranteed to-well, never mind, but there goes that part of date night. Thank you very much, dog.

Two hours later he’s snacking on another favorite pair. These had a cute little silver camper trailer printed on the front-they were my Camper Van Beethoven undies, and mutt was acting like they were prime rib.

He’s going to start thinking his name is What The Fuck Dog.

Fortunately, my secret upskirt tribute to David Lowery and Co. were only a little dog spit-soaked, so they were salvageable.

Not so the next pair, my last surviving pair from a certain well-known lingerie shop’s free panty promotion. Mutt had those things reduced to tatters. Do you know what it’s like to pick bits of your underwear from between the teeth of a shih tzu?*

“Give me my underwear, dog.”

Nibble nibble nibble, says dog.

“For real, dog. Give ’em up. Open your mouth.”

No, says dog, and adds an underbite smirk just to be sure I’m paying attention. Chew chew chew.

“I bet I could trade you for a Victoria’s Secret gift card, mutt. I’m not even kidding. Open your mouth. What the fuck, dog, it’s underwear.”

You get the idea.

I’m beginning to think beloved is spraying my underwear with bacon grease or something as I take them off the line, using our sweet, innocent dog in his plot to turn me into a nudist, one article of clothing at a time. And after more than 30 years of being a proud slacker, this tiny little half-legged leg-humper (oh, the underwear thing so isn’t his only deviant habit) has forced me to do the unthinkable.

I took the clothes off the line this morning. I put them on my bed. I folded them and put them away. All of them, right then. And when I got dressed, my discarded unmentionables went straight to the washer.

Sorry, dog. The snack bar is closed.

*This sentence originally appeared in a text message to my older daughter.

How the Naughty Poo Got In, or, Ape Gets a Dog

Published February 8, 2012 by April Fox

In a little red hut in my little white house in my little shit town, there is a little spotted dog with no legs. This is the story of that no-legged dog.

I am in possession of two people with charming smiles and big blue eyes. One of them uses me as a backrest while she watches iCarly and gets her hair rolled. The other uses me as a footwarmer while he steals the blankets and giggles at me in his sleep. Both of them have spent the past forever or so asking me if we could get a puppy. They do this, of course, while aiming those big eyes and charming smiles at my face. I’m used to telling the little one no, because I’m her mother and that’s what mothers do so that their children don’t turn into entitled little demon brats who can evacuate an entire Toys R Us with the screaming borne of being told that they can only get one Super Deluxe Hoochie Doll Complete With Tanning Bed and Antibiotics. I’m used to telling the big one no because, well, we live together now, and I don’t have to say yes.

Still. There’s this ad. And this picture. And this omigod puppy and it would teach the baby responsibility and it would only cost like, five bucks a month to feed and wouldn’t it be great to have a dog to take hiking and omigod the dog has a beard and goddammit fine I’ll call the people.

Several hours later we’re in the Wal-mart parking lot meeting these people who I really hope aren’t those black market organ harvesting guys, and they’re not, and the dog really does have a beard and two minutes later he’s up on my shoulder like a baby human and beloved and I are all googly-eyed like, “Awwww, we got a puppy. Together. Wow…” [Insert hearts and flowers and sparkly things over our heads. We’re disgusting.] And the dog is crate trained, yay! No doggie poop in the house.

An hour later there’s doggie poop in the house.

I am not the most fastidious housekeeper. Right now, I should really be washing the dishes or using that thing with the bristles and the long handle, what do you call it? The broom. But I draw the line at doggie poop in the house. Beloved knows this and agrees that the living room floor is not the best place for this goddamn mutt darling pooch to relieve himself, and he sets about remedying the situation.

“I read that you’re not supposed to scold the dog. You’re supposed to scold the poo,” he says. I’m not sure, but I suspect this earned him what he calls my Nina Simone look. “Dude,” I say, “I am not talking to the poo. I am cleaning it up. If you want to scold the poo, knock yourself out.” And thus, I set off to find the Pine-sol and paper towels.

Upon my return, this is what I see: My usually-rational and mostly-sane beloved is standing over the poo, clearly trying not retch while he gives it the scolding of its life: “Bad poo! BAD poo! Naughty poo! NO! You don’t belong here! Bad poo!” This is effective in stopping the mutt from making any further messes, because he’s too busy trying not to laugh to even think about going poo again.

So here’s this dog, right? I mentioned that he has no legs. That’s not quite right. He does have legs, they’re just about a quarter as long as they should be. According to the black market organ guys, mutt is a Jack Russell-shih tzu mix. You know how funny that looks in your head? Make it twice as odd, and you have our mutt. He has smooth fur everywhere but on his face, which is covered in tufts of white hair that make him look like the billy goat version of Albert Einstein, with a freaky little underbite. When he smiles, he looks like he’s contemplating eating your face and molesting the hell out of your soul before trading it to Satan in exchange for a bit of cheese and a liver treat. And his legs-his legs look like he got his shins shot off like Hank Hill’s dad in King of the Hill. He is, to put it simply, absolutely freaking adorable.

See? He clearly wants your soul.

So here I am with demon dog, who is actually quite sweet, despite his fangs and mental-patient hairdo [I know, I’m one to talk] and I’m not quite sure what to do with him. He’s just like, staring at me. Beloved has retreated to our bedroom-office to do whatever he does in there among the granola bar wrappers and empty bottles of aloe juice, and I have to deal with Pooper McFaceEater alone. Maybe he’s smart, I think.¬† Maybe I can teach him to play. So I show him the little tennis ball I got him, made especially for dogs who don’t know that dogs are supposed to be bigger than cats. “Look,” I say, “It’s a ball. You’re a dog. When I throw it, go get it, okay?”

I throw the ball. Mutt trots three little half-legged steps toward it, stops, and looks at me like, “Huh?”

“No,” I say, “You’re not supposed to look at me. You’re supposed to fetch it. Fetch the ball. Dude, you’re a dog. You chase it and pick it up with your little demon fangs and bring it back to me. That’s what dogs do. Did you miss the memo? For real, dog. Go get the ball.”

Mutt cocks his head in that cute way that dogs and babies have that keeps you from sending them to the pound, and hop-hops back over to me.

Okay, screw the fetch thing. Maybe I can train the mutt to sit. I mean, it’s sitting. Dogs do that naturally, especially in convenient places like doorways and on your head while you’re trying to sleep.

“Sit, dog,” I tell him.

Mutt looks at me like he just had a spontaneous lobotomy.

“Sit.” And I push down on his little puppy butt. Great idea, except he has no legs back there. “Dammit,” I say, “You don’t have any legs. How am I supposed to tell whether or not you’re sitting? Dogs are supposed to have legs. I don’t understand you, dog.”

Mutt wags his tail and his butt wiggles, so I know it’s not on the ground. Okay, so demon dog can’t fetch, has no legs, doesn’t know how to sit, and on top of all that, his poo is unresponsive to negative reinforcement.

I’m not seeing much use in this dog, to tell you the truth. If it doesn’t eat bad guys, rescue people in an avalanche, or count to fifty on the Late Show so that we can get rich and quit batting our eyes at the meter reader to get our light bill knocked down, what good is it?

In the morning, we discover that mutt did wonderfully in his little red hut overnight. He’s calm in the car, doesn’t snap at the kids, stood perfectly still while he was bathed, and only peed on the floor four times before lunch. In the morning, we discover exactly what mutt is good for. Remember the little girl with the big blue eyes and the charming smile? The one who hardly ever asks for anything, despite the fact that we are very rarely in a position to give her anything more than what she absolutely needs? The one who really really wanted a puppy of her very own? This is what mutt is good for. I think he’ll have to stay, naughty poo and all.

He serves his purpose.

%d bloggers like this: