Embarrassment, table for one

Like every woman I have my good days and my bad days.  If the jeans feel a little loose around the waist, it’s a good day.  If the bangs look like the brim of cycling cap, it’s a bad day.  If the makeup is flawless AND the booty is poppin’, ladies and gentlewomen, that’s what we call Christmas in July.

And it’s not always just about how I look.  I get a fuzzy feeling when I let Husbot have the last piece of pizza, I nurse a baby squirrel back to health, or I drop a fiver into the coffee cup of a violin-playing hobo.  Then again, I feel like a total asshat when I realize the car I just flipped off is a Meals on Wheels van being driven by a little old lady.

But for the sake of entertainment, let’s say I’m having a good day all around: clean black pants, shiny locks, and the cure for the common cold in my back pocket.

At 5:15 pm I get home from work.  Naturally, I have to take my dog out for a walk.  Let me tell you here and now, nothing brings my big inflated head back down to Earth faster than that furry, four-legged Napoleon.

Firstly, he barks.  At everything.  A wheelchair, a baby stroller, a fern blowing in the wind.  An errant piece of trash in the street, the smell of gasoline, and of course, other dogs.  I swear to sweet bobble-headed baby Jesus that I’ve tried everything.  A firm, “No!”  An introduction to his perceived enemy (ALWAYS ENDS BADLY).  Profusely apologizing to everyone we pass.  A treat reward or disincentive.  He still barks.  So I usually just cross the street, dragging Cujo Jr. behind me.

If I could avoid the whole walking situation entirely, believe me, I would.  But we need to accomplish two things on Joey’s walks: exercise and bladder/intestinal elimination.  Cause listen, if there’s one thing I feel badly about in our dog’s life, it’s is the fact that the dude can’t go to the bathroom on his own accord.  That sucks; no one else in our household has the same restriction.  Furthermore, the place we rent has no doggie door, and even if it did, I’m generally convinced those only lead to other stray animals entering your home unannounced, usually while you’re asleep.  Seriously, I don’t need any more mouths to feed.

One of the joys of dog ownership is cleaning up after your pooch.  If we go on a mile long walk, I can guarantee that for 9/10ths of the distance we won’t run into anyone else.  But as soon as he senses there is another human in his vicinity, his butt starts percolating somethin’ awful.  And no sooner have I spotted someone in my line of vision, he’s squatting down with that pitiful look in his eyes, and I’m reaching for a lavender-scented baggie. Humiliation: complete.  (Bonus points if he can squeeze a second one out while a group of male models run by.)

I love him, I really do.  He’s worth all the work it takes to keep him alive and happy.  But no other living thing does such a good job of reminding me that no matter what I think, my shit does stink, and his does too.


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One Response to Embarrassment, table for one

  1. Hath No Fury says:

    My fav is when there are 87 trashcans before THE BIG 2, but once you have that stink bomb in your hands you could go miles without seeing one and have to drag that plastic bag around.

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