See that cute little pooch up there? That's Zoey, and she's our loaner dog again this week. All the fun of dog ownership without all the work! Sure, she still has to be fed and walked, but friends, 11 1/2 years ago, I predicted the day would come when I'd be asked to care for the dog of someone I didn't yet know, so I turned to my husband, then known as my Camera Man, and whispered, "Baby, let's make a baby!", and that is how my oldest son came to be. Now I have a really cute kid who will put sandwich bags on his hands to pick up dog poop, and I get to sit on the couch and rub Zoey's cute furry belly. There's just a hint of a power struggle between boy and beast when I ask one of them to fetch my slippers. Opposable thumbs give my son the advantage.
But just barely.
When she's not with us, Zoey is owned by our pastor and his family. That means when she's home, she's quite proper and abides by the rules. Some people walk with God. Zoey comes pretty close to taking walks with God.
I've seen her in her natural environment, and she's very calm and polite. Every morning, between her numerous naps, she takes some quiet time with her Devotional for Dogs. During prayers, she refrains from barking and squeaking her stuffed porcupine (which...sigh...my kids call Mr. Beaver, and I don't know why, but it makes me laugh. Oh, I know why it makes me laugh. I just don't know why they call a porcupine a beaver. Also? Yep. There's still a 12 year old boy inside of me. No! Wait! That sounded wrong! I'm stopping now, as I've dug a hole AND written the longest parenthetical comment ever on this blog...).
Anyway, at her home, Zoey is a dream dog. One of God's glorious creatures.
Then she comes to my house, and I swear to you, the instant her owners pull out of the driveway, she's hiking up her skirt, tying her shirt into a slutty halter, smearing her lips with blood red lipstick, and trying to bum cigarettes off of us, even though she knows none of us smoke. I know her ways, because that is EXACTLY what I did during my freshman year of college. She's all, "What's up, bitches?? Get it? I'm a bitch, and I was all just, 'What's up, bitches??' Is that beagle across the street new here? Whattaya say we shake a tail over there, check that hottie out? Bark, bark!"
Yeah. Good times. She wants to watch soft core porn on cable, and stir up trouble between me and Maddie, my sister's visiting dog. She also chews her left front paw incessantly, like a little boy who just discovered he's got a permanent plaything tucked between his legs. She tries to hide the fact she's chewing, chewing, chewing, but I am not stupid. I know. Especially when it's 3 a.m., she's stretched out over my thighs, and the chewing, chewing, chewing wakes me up. "They don't let me do this at their house!" her bulbous eyes seem to say when I urge her to stop, maybe get some help "They say it'll make me go blind! But it feels good! You know what I'm talking about! I! JUST! CAN'T! STOP!"
So I push her over to Tool Man's side of the bed, and eventually their snoring falls into such an even pattern, I'm unable to tell which of them is blowing the roof off above me. When she does sleep, she's apparently dreaming of packs of wild, hot dogs of every breed chasing her, because she's fluttering her eyes, softly barking, and paddling her little paws in a flirty dance.
But the most disturbing thing she does? She's apparently hot for my oldest son, the child I bore knowing one day we'd have to take care of a dog. So hot for him, in fact, that she attempts to hump him as soon as she sees the opportunity. "What's Zoey doing?!" he'll ask when she zeroes in on him. "Oh! She just missed you so much she wanted to show you by giving your leg a big hug! Ha! Ha! Isn't that sweet!?" I respond, lunging across the room to pull Zoey McSlutenstien off my boy's calf.
Here's a little something I've never learned despite all the hours I've clocked in on the Discovery channel - (A) I didn't know female dogs humped, (B) especially female dogs that have been spayed. I'm very much the suburban girl, and the dogs we had when I grew up were as chaste as I was.
Oh, but had one of them gone to college with me...
Clearly, Zoey thinks of us as the crazy relatives who let her get away with anything. If she had the opposable thumbs that enable my son to lead the slipper race to date, I've little doubt she'd sneak out at night and go visit the neighbor's beagle. It's a pity she can't, really. It'd give my poor kid's leg a much needed break. She's a little too much my son's best friend.
Labels: '...a freak without warning"