Perhaps you’ll recall an incident I related to y’all recently about my pure bred Bichon Frise getting hisself all up in a can of bacon fat and paying for eating all of said bacon fat. And by paying for it, I mean throwing up all over the place.
Well? Snowflake strikes back…
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I came home from work recently, to the sound of the breezes that blow and I’m trying to please to the calling chaos, but that shouldn’t be too surprising to anyone listening to this.
On this particular occasion, though, Natalia and Jethro were bitching something about the dog, but to be quite honest with you, they could’ve told me Snowflake finally learn to crap on the turlet, and I still wouldn’t have acknowledged them. I mean, for mercy’s sake! I just walked in the door!
Let me explain something to you. From the time I get home from work, until dinner’s on the table, it’s all business. Once we’re sitting down eating, tell me your trials and tribulations, until then, don’t bother me unless you want a facefull of angry Fadderly.
Here’s another interesting tidbit I bet you didn’t know about your friendly neighborhood jman: After 9 pm, I’m worthless. I’m done. Cooked. Fried. Toast. Pick the next adjective of your choice, it’s still the same. I’m finished for the night. Let’s agree to solve the world’s problems between dinner and 9 pm. After that, let’s agree to save it for tomorrow. Cause , it’s always a day a way…
Now, on this other particular occasion, that relates to the first particular occasion (mentioned earlier), but occurring around 9:07 pm the day after the first particular occasion, a conversation kinda went down a lil something like thus:
“blahblahblahblahthedogstinks.” Jethro yammered. Whatever it was he had been blathering about the dog for the last day and half finally started seeping into my consciousness.
I looked at him, doing my best not to glare. He really should know better, though. It was after 9. I punched the clock for the night minutes early. I’m not dealing with anything this late. “He always stinks. He’s a dog.” I muttered. “It’s their job to smell.”
“No, dad. I think Snowflake pooped in his cage.”
And at that moment, like a flashback movie, it all came together. All that stuff that Natalia and Jethro had been going on about the day prior, began to crystallize in my consciousness. “Wait.” I said, probably looking stunned. “What? What did you say?”
“I think Snowflake pooped in his cage.”
I closed my eyes, then glanced up at the ceiling. As if a portal might’ve opened to the big guy upstairs that he might’ve use to shower down upon me patience and understanding.
There hadn’t. And there wasn’t.
“I told you yesterday.” Jethro said, with only a hint of “I told you so”ness.
“Are you kidding me?” I said as the weight of the situation dropped down on my shoulders. I grabbed the dog, who thankfully didn’t smell like anything other than a dog, and quickly ushered him outside.
Which then left his cage to deal with. Before we go any further, I need you to take a moment and clear your mind. I want you to picture yourself sitting on an old, weather worn dock somewhere on the Florida side of the Gulf of Mexico. It’s hot and humid, a typical mid July afternoon. Sitting next to you is an equally old metal bucket. Now in your mind’s eye, if you’ll look inside that bucket, you’ll see it’s full of fish heads. Fish heads and cigarette butts that have been sitting outside in that forsaken Floridian heat for about, oh…i don’t know…say 7 to 10 days. You smell that? No…that’s not what the Rock IS cooking. That’s what Snowflake’s cage smelled like.
More or less.
As I pulled his blankies out of the cage, the smell only got worse. Nonono. He didn’t poop. Thank god. He only puked. And then did the only courteous thing a dog can do after eating a bag of trash that was left on the floor the night before that was full of scraps from our Sunday night family dinner. You bury the vomit (and the remains of the bag) in your blankies. And go about your business like nothing ever happened.
So, at 9:15 pm, I took apart his cage, threw out his blankies, and Cloroxed the shit out of his lil home. All the while singing Zip a dee doo dah. Zip a dee ay
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The moral of the story? When it’s time to party, keep in mind, this is the kind of stuff you’re gonna have to deal with 9 months later…
Images courtesy of:
Dog on toilet: www.celebritydachshund.com