FROM JASON’S FRESH NEW HELL — Wrapped in my big comforter Sunday morning, I was having a great, warm, sexy dream until 10:03 a.m.
That’s when my wife woke me by singing a little song, making up lyrics as she went along about how she wanted a little puppy friend to mother. My wife is insufferably cute, and she batted her eyelashes.
The next thing I knew, I was standing at the pet store adopting a stray puppy and holding $160 worth of food, chew toys, leashes, bedding, and caging. The little German shepherd/labrador mix slept in my arms all the way home, pushing its nose into my shoulder.
Then the pooping started.
You’ll notice the ol’ blag was a little thin over the weekend. That’s because I spent it chasing the dog around and trying to convince it that turds belong on newspaper, not on hardwood floors and expensive, custom-made throw rugs. Apparently, my urgent pleas meant nothing, because two days later I have nearly exhausted my portable Bissell steam cleaner.
Let’s do a quick tally for Monday alone:
Number of times Macie (the wife picked the name) dooked on my floors: 8
Number of times Macie crapped on the newspaper: 3
Number of times Macie shat outside: 3
Total Macie dumps between 6 a.m. and 10 p.m.: 14
Additional Macie piddles on my rugs: 2
Number of times a cat vomited on the rug in the same period: 1
Number of times Macie tried to eat said cat puke before I could clean it up: 2
Yes, she’s cute. Yes, I hold her constantly. Yes, she watched three episodes of Star Trek: The Next Generation with me today while she wasn’t dropping nuclear waste all over my house.
Yes, I am acting macho and complaining about training to cover up my non-manly feelings for a dog. Yes, I spent far too damned much time drawing that floor plan of my house.
Yes, here is another picture.