You could say that I'm just exhausted from many, many consecutive nights of very little sleep. You could say that I'm stressed out with my new load of school work. You could say that I have PMS and I'm crampy and emotional. And you'd be right every time. But that doesn't change the fact that I am more than tired of the dog.
Things might be different if I'd had a dog that I loved before I had any kids. Or things might be different if I'd grown up with a dog; in fact I'm sure they would. Because I remember that when I was about six or seven, and we had Rocky—my brother's Dalmatian-English Pointer mix—I thought he was pretty wonderful. I sat around with him, and leaned on him when he was lying down, and petted him, and invited him everywhere I went. In fact, one winter Mom kept Rocky in the house because he had bad arthritis (from a pin in his leg, earned by chasing cars) and I remember her complaining about all the mess of dog hair all over the house that winter. I hadn't even noticed it until she said something; I just loved having the dog in the house. I know, I know; all my kids will find that very hard to believe, but it's true. I treated Rocky the way Rachel treats Tucker.
But Rocky died when I was between eight and ten, and we never had a dog after him. Well, when I was about 20 we did have Basil, a Cocker Spaniel who was as dumb as he was attractive.
So I didn't grow up with dogs. I'm not used to them. I think they are yucky. I can see why other people like them—I really can. They do that cute inquisitive dog-look-thing—in fact, they have very expressive faces, they are enthusiastic, they love to be with you, and sometimes they're kind of funny and cute. I can enjoy them (sort of) from a distance, but they are a big-old, nasty pain to live with.
Every time I begin to think that maybe, just maybe, I could tolerate Tucker (despite the piles of black, hair everywhere, and as long as his nose and tongue never touch me)—just when I begin to think that maybe he's OK, he does something that makes me want to beat him. Or sprinkle Tabasco on the trash.
Yes, Tucker has started chowing down on the trash. He tried it a couple of times when we first got him, but his head got stuck in the lid of the trash can and it scared him and he's never done it again. Until a little while ago. And now, this morning was the third time in a week. Now, if he just used the kitchen trash-can like a big-doggy bowl, that would be OK. I mean, who cares? But, no. He has to search through the can for the tastiest tidbits—like old chicken fat, empty "cream of anything" soup cans . . . You know the routine, I'm sure. And I'm sure you've seen the end results of the way dogs carry out this archaeological dig—plastic wrap chewed up and stretched to Kingdom Come, vegetable peels and scraps discarded all over the place, cans and containers strewn about. And even that would be tolerable if it was limited to the back yard, only happened once every two years, and my kids were here to clean it up. It could be set down as typical dog behavior which would irritate me a lot, but not quite make me want to kill him. But, noooo. He has to drag it down the stairs and mess up the living room too!
So this morning, as I haul my tired self out of bed to take the kids to school, in my PMS state, I am weighing which is more urgent: My zillion homework assignments, or the huge globs of dog hair stuck all over the stairs? Being a fastidious housekeeper, and not a big fan of dogs, I've been feeling irritated all week about the black hairy mess (I mean Tucker—and the hair he's shed all over my world), and I've been murmuring about the lack of vacuuming that my carpets receive. I figure I'll drop off the kids, pick up a few groceries, clean up the house, do some laundry, vacuum the stairs (where Tucker sleeps), and then get to my homework. An extremely full day.
I drop off the kids, go shopping, and get home feeling pretty darn happy that I just got 36 cans of Stephen's Cinnamon Hot Cocoa Mix for 75 cents each. That might just last month or two around here. I open the door to bring in the groceries, and there it is: slimy, chewed up, stretched out, plastic wrap hanging down the stairs; an old honey bottle dripping its last dregs on the carpet; onion roots, carrot peels, and celery ends all over the place; butter wrappers chewed into shreds and scattered on the living room floor—and, to top it off, ants coming from who knows where to enjoy the remains of the feast. Tucker knew he was in BIG trouble; he's pretty lucky I didn't kill him on the spot. He hid from me all day until Bruce got home—which was perfectly fine with me.
I admit, the thought of lacing the trash with rat poison did flit across my evil brain. But I think I'm not entirely heartless, and not vicious . . . I think. At least I'm not truly murderous. I just hate living with a dog.
Hours later, with most of my "mad" worn down, although not completely gone, I'm willing to negotiate: I won't kill the dog if my family will really take care of him—you know, like feeding and watering him and letting him outside without my having to tell them over and over again. AND vacuuming up all the dog hair Every Day. We'll see what happens.
