So here I am, holding my purse, keys and a half-melted mint chocolate chip ice cream cone from a certain deliciously desirable dairy store watching Casey, our dog, poop. It is dark, and I cautiously tread the long grass to find the land mine. Ever so carefully I pick up the dog poop while holding the keys and now my phone (because that thing has been going off all day) and nearly die when my ice cream cone takes a nose dive into the lawn.
THAT people has been my life since we moved to our new place. Twice a day we take the dog down the two flights of stairs and pick up his poop. It kinda sucks.
It wasn’t always like this.
We used to have a doggie door and lived in blissful peace because our dog was housebroken and he let himself out as if to say “Please excuse me, I need to use the loo.”
When we first adopted Casey from the humane society, Evan and I had no idea what were thinking. I know. What a horrible thing to say right? How could you say that about your cute dog? All I have to say is, I know people who say that about THEIR CHILDREN.
The first thing Casey did when we brought him home in 2006 was jump onto the foot of our bed and took a 4 hour nap. That should have been a sign of what would come. Throughout the first year of living with us, the shaggy terrier mix chewed through everything including my $200 Franklin Covey purse, my kitchen wall, two loaves of bread, numerous towels and blankets and carpet. Evan and I would chalk up all of these disasters as merely tests of our character and moved past them quickly. Other than the fact that he liked to destroy our belongings while we were at work, Casey was a good dog. I even found it amiable when he followed me around our teeny tiny house.
Don’t get me wrong. I totally love my dog. I am glad he is so comfortable in my house, but quite frankly I am ready to start charging rent.
We are slowly growing apart, like an 8th grade relationship doomed to fail, we are getting on each other’s nerves. Evan is in Denver on business this week which has only amplified our frustration with each other.
Our day starts off with a morning walk, picking up his poop and then daily feeding and watering. Most days, I do not mind carrying out this small responsibility. When we return from our walk, the battle of wills begin.
You should know that at this point in my blog post that Casey follows me everywhere I go in the house. If I am doing laundry, he is following me back and forth from bedrooms to laundry room. It is just one of the Certain Facts of Life that Casey will be no more than 5 feet behind me. ALWAYS.
So I take showers in the mornings (like I hope most of you do, unless you are a night person to which I say, God Speed). Every day, after I just picked up HIS FECES, he looks up at me like I am being such an inconvenience taking a shower. “Because, you know the Golden Rule, must I get off the foot of your bed and lay on the cold tile AT THIS HOUR?” he says.
Whether it is taking or a shower or doing chores, he acts as if he signed a contractual agreement and risks losing his wife and kids if the physical distance between us exceeds a yardstick length.
That dog. That incorrigible dog.
