It's a doggie dog world.

This is about a dog, a dog that Ex#2 really wanted, dreamed of and begged for, really. Which is similar to his begging for doggie style, but that's a different story.

One that won't be told here.

Pigs.

Ex#2 really wanted a puppy.

Puppy = work

Puppy = ME with more work.

So when we found a nice enough stray dog hanging around my parent's I suggested we take him for a spin. So four years ago, we took that dog home, we named that dog and we've had that dog since.

No one bonded to the poor dog. He was super nice, but also super annoying. (The dog, not Ex#2, cause that one's a given) When Ex#2 (finally) moved out back in March, I agreed to keep the dog UNTIL the house sold. Then the dog was his.

I broke my back getting the dog's 50 million pound bag of food, scooped enough poop from the yard to fuel a small car and dealt with all the dog's annoying traits, which also included the time he got loose and had an ass chewin' by a neighborly dog.

When Ex#2 decided to play poor me settle for a ONE bedroom apartment I pushed for him to find a home for the dog. It was obvious now that he wasn't going to take the dog and I really (nice as the dog was) didn't want him either.

At one time in my life I wanted three children, I've since gotten a brain decided that two is just enough and a four legged child was not in my best interest (at this time).

He searched, I searched. People thought I was kidding when I'd offer up a free dog to them. We even had people come check out the dog, nada. No one wanted this now 7ish year old dog.

Hell we couldn't even get the Humane Society to take him, he was on the waiting list for three places. Our last resort was either taking him to the pound or putting him to sleep ourselves. By "ourselves" I mean EX#2 was going to have to do it, because there is now way I could witness putting a perfectly healthy dog to sleep. No.way.

If I were in the room, guess what? I'd be keeping the damn dog...cause I just couldn't do it.

A few days before closing on our house I got a call from our realtor.

"I got a call from the buyer's realtor and he has a strange request."

"um, OK, what is it?" I asked.

"They heard through the grapevine that you are taking the dog to the pound. Is that true?" She asked.

"Yes, unfortunately, we can't find a home for him." I mumbled something about stupid Ex#2 getting an apartment that doesn't allow dogs. *Eye roll*

"Well, the buyers would like to know if they can have the dog..." She said.

"Are you kidding me? Holy cow. Do they want kids, cause I can work that out too?"

What? Don't judge.

Closing day, we see the buyers and YES they want the dog, I mean, they weren't ready to have a dog just yet, but he's such a nice dog and so sweet and they can't let us take him to the pound...so Yeah. They. kept. our. dog.

Things work out, they always do.



Leaving Bo at the house this past Monday was a little harder than I expected.
I'm sorry Bo.
I'm sorry thing didn't work out differently for you with OUR family.
I wish you a new happy family, be good ya big Dum-BO.

Savin Ass.

I have typed this post a few times...when I was thinking about it originally and at the time it was happening it was HYSTERICAL to me. Now though, a week later, I can't seem to make it as funny in type than it was while happening.

Let me give you the basics.

Dog. Ass Chewed.

(You're probably thinking, FOR THE LOVE OF PETE, she's talking about the dog AGAIN? Yes, um, yes I am.)

STBE biggest AssHat of this century.

(I know, more bitch with that wine? Don't mind if I do.)

I have a heart, I felt bad for the damn dog so I took him to the vet.

(sucker)

Vet was closed, had to go to vet HOSPITAL.

($$$)




Enter nurse, not my biggest fan. Bertha McMustache was not amused by my sweet and cute lack of knowledge for my OWN dog.

(eye roll)

I mean, really? I have NO CLUE what the brand of dog food he eats. It a huge ass bag, 40 lbs to be exact. Yellow, the bag is yellow and it is dog food.

(at least he's fed)

Enter sweet nurse and a thermometer.

(ooohhhh ahhhhh)

Except, wait, where is she sticking that?

Picture me, straddling the dog's head to hold him still, not sure if he is going to bite my ass off or not, two kids stunned as Sweet Nurse jabs inserts thermometer in Bo's butt hole.

(great! good times)

Bubba starts the 100 (million) question game.

(exit sweet nurse)

Buggy, spots rectal thermometer on the counter. "Mom, did she wash that off?"

(me-IDK, sniff it and find out)

(I'm kidding, I didn't tell her that *fixes halo*)

Dr comes in, drops a bomb of about $400 to knock Bo out and stitch him...OR...take my chances on a longer healing process and do nothing.

(easy choice...do NOTHING)

((the price of NOTHING? $233.00. F*ck))

Enter again Nurse Bertha McMustache who's ate one too many Big Macs.

(that's not nice)

She's already not impressed by my comedic behavior, she is growling out the specifics of the medication, when to give it, when to take my own, how to care for the dog, etc.

The dog is pulling on the leash to leave, kids are still sniffing the thermometer and I can not concentrate 'cause her mustache is so thick. She had a five o'clock shadow except it's now eight o'clock if ya know what I mean.

(I wish I had a pencil thin mustache kept running through my head)

((I really wish I had a Pina Colada))

Alls well that ends well, except the dog's "end" (as in rear end) is still pretty grotesque. He seems to be healing just fine though, the kids got an education they may not have been ready to get, and Bertha's mustache didn't reach out and bitch slap me.

*sigh*

TTMOF, Totally Ticks Me Off Tuesday.

Remember that ass chewin?

I'm still ticked off about that.

So after Bubba pointed out that Bo was bleeding I call STBE, it's HIS dog. I am only keeping the dog until STBE gets a place to have the dog.

"Hey, you know Bo got out last night, well, he was bit or something..." I pause to see if STBE steps up to the plate and offers to come take HIS dog to the vet. OR EVEN AT THE VERY LEAST say, shit, can you please take him to the vet for me cause I can't (blah blah blah).

Not the case. OF FUCKING COURSE.

"I can't come out there for every little thing, Stace" he says.

Let me list the "things" he's HAD to come out for....
um.
1) kid's softball/baseball games.
2) Bubba's practices.
3) UM. Yeah. THAT'S FUCKING IT.
4) oh right, he HAD to come out to "babysit" forgot that FAVOR. *eye roll*

*deep breath*

Yeah, he totally ticks me off daily.

So come back tomorrow to hear all about rectal thermometers and the vet nurse that could bitch slap me with her mustache.

Good times.

Ass Chewin

I was sleeping peacefully the other morning when I hear the door bell at 6am.

Confused, I roll over and close my eyes. Totally blowing off the sound, convincing myself that it was just a dream. The bell rings again.

I throw the covers off of me, groggily walk to the front door. With sleep in my eyes and my hair standing straight up, I answer the door. A lady stood there with fire pouring out of her ears.

"Is this your dog?" she sneered.

I rub my eyes and look down at the pathetic brown eyed and panting black dog.

"Yes, thank you." I say with a sigh.

Rewind back to the night before when STBE so graciously "babysat" for me. Being the "stand-up" guy that he is *ahem* he had decided to clean the gutters while he was there doing me a "favor". While he was on the roof, he left the gate open from the yard. The kids, being the stellar kids they are, let the dog out to go potty.

Bo, is a runner. We got him as a stray, he runs, it's what he does. He saw his escape route and too gratefully took it.

When I arrived home, I was home maybe 15 minutes when STBE asked me if I had seen the dog. To which I said, no, I've only been home a short time. It was then that he realized the situation and that Bo had gone out to gallivant around the neighborhood.

He'll come back, he always does. I closed up the house and went to bed.

Back to my early morning alarm.

As I open the door for the dog the woman goes into a tirade.

"Your dog has been in my yard for the past two nights," (not true, but I was too sleepy to respond), "I've been up since 3 am, my dog is VERY aggressive and will kill your dog. I drove around the neighborhood for an hour trying to catch your dog. You really need to figure out how he is getting out and take care of that problem. If I see your dog loose again I am calling animal control." She growled all of this without taking a breath.

Wow, OK. Right. Well. "I really apologize for your inconvenience" was all I could muster in my confused are-you-fucking-kidding me state. I close the door and give the dog a stare down.

I climb back into bed, hoping that I can fall back asleep for the 20 minutes before my alarm starts blaring the beginning of a new day.

As the kids and I are getting ready, Bubba runs into the bathroom to announce that Bo is bleeding.

Oh for the love of Pete. *grumble-grumble*

Sure enough, I wasn't the only one that got their ass chewed out.

Nothing says "good morning" like a good ass chewin.

Sir-Bo-shits-a-lot

It was a beautiful day Saturday. I decided to whip out the lawnmower and give my grass a much needed trim.

Life with a dog, however had me FIRST cleaning up dog poo. As I searched the long grass for piles, I was cursing the damn dog. Why must he poop?

Bo, now to be known as Sir-Bo-shits-a-lot, leaves piles everywhere.


Mr. President, you have your own Bo now, may I warn you? Get a pooper picker upper, someone to pick up poop on the White House lawn. Pay them well, sir.

I think I shall have to find someone to be my poop picker upper, but for now, it is me.

As I scoop another pile I think, dammit, I didn't even want a dog for this exact reason. Why do I have to house the dog? I don't want this dog. I don't love this dog. Besides all the hair around the house, the nose prints on the windows and doors, he eats like a pig and shits like a horse.

After filling an entire plastic grocery bag full of shit, I start up the mower. Thankfully it starts right up, purring under my hands, vibrating my arms. The sun is shining, I am in shorts, it is a beautiful day. Nothing beats the smell of freshly cut grass.

*sniff*
What the hell, pile o shit number one. Damn. Oh well, it's just one that I missed.



Side note, do not wear flip flops while mowing. Just sayin'.

A couple more times around the yard another land mine and another...

There is nothing worse than stale old ass poop chopped up in mower blades to reveal still stank fresher poop on the inside.

The grass looked great after it was all said and done. Especially the extra fertilized parts. Thanks Bo.