Thou Shalt Have No Other Dogs Before Me

WARNING: EXPLICIT IMAGE

D1 is typically an early riser and more than once has presented us with stunning morning news.

When she was seven she gleefully announced at 5:30 AM on a Saturday that Chewy - the Guinea pig we had been duped into getting for "free" only a week earlier - "Had her babies!"

A few years ago, she was the first to alert us to what would be a weeks long restoration nightmare when she told us the kitchen hardwood floor had turned into a swimming pool overnight thanks to a clog in the kitchen drain.

This morning I realized D1 was up when I heard tearful, soulful moaning about her, "poor dog." Thinking that something awful must have happened to Cookie, I was terrified to hear the news. Choking in between sobs, she presented me with her latest toy that DH purchased for her at a gas station yesterday afternoon.

It used to be small dog in a dog bed. I thought its long hair made it look like a creepy mouse, but to each his own.

Apparently I was not the only one that found the gas station toy repulsive. Sometime in the night our real dog Cookie escaped from the mudroom and tracked down the creepy, mouse-dog, beloved treasure. Using her superior canine sense of smell - that is if you can count obstinate, prissy Shih Tzu's as part of the canine phylum - she embarked on a skillful game of search and destroy.

Cookie was victorious. The creepy mouse-dog never had a chance.

I Am My Dog and My Dog is Me?

An article in the Sunday paper has me in a panic. It explores the possibility that our pets are a reflection of our inner selves. If this is true I am in a world of hurt.

First of all my Shih-Tzu, named Cookie, is 20% heavier than the average dog of her breed. Hmmm…I don’t have anything to say on this subject except, so far, not looking so good.

Secondly, she is a mess. When she was younger I would take her to the groomer regularly to style her coiffure and trim her nails. Now, I’ve come to accept that she is a family dog, not royalty, and she runs around most of the time looking like a rag muffin. If that is a reflection on me, my expensive new hair straightening iron is not doing its job.

Perhaps worst of all, Cookie is a barking, raving lunatic. My neighbors must truly be saints, because not one of them has tried to feed her rat poison, yet. I know I too can be full of jibber jabber, especially when I get the opportunity to converse with people who experienced puberty before President George W. Bush came to office, but I hope no one sees me as a yapping crazy lady.

Finally, the saddest realization is: (all you animal lovers just close your eyes for the next few words) I hate my dog. Not that I wish her any harm, at least not permanent harm, but most days, I just detest her food, her smell, her mess and her uppity ways. And if I hate my dog, what does that say about me and how I feel about myself?

All of this is is a reality I am not prepared to face. The more I think about the article, I am convinced it was published in order to drive otherwise sane housewives like me to seek professional counseling.

I feel the need to shake these disturbing thoughts and do something refreshing. Something that will make me feel whole and normal again. Where is my adorable dog? I need some matted hair to rip through with a comb.