Hunneypunkin's dog thinks he's a house pet. I think he's not. And since I'm Caesar of this empire, he's not. But he's a decent dog and I'm a decent emperor, so I agree to let him visit the great indoors on occasion. I do, however, keep him on the three strikes program.
The dog has a corner of his own in the living room, and that's the only spot he's allowed to be. We have an old blanket that we spread on the floor in his corner to keep his doggie smell from melting into the carpet, and he does a good job of staying on his blankie (except for that one sly paw that he stretches jusssst off the edge.) He'll sleep there for hours. Like the children, he seems to have adapted his version of the Jurassic Park scene--"Don't move. They won't see me if I don't move. Then they'll let me stay."
Though he generally seems to be sleeping, he definitely notices if everyone leaves the room. Then he'll go silently lurking through the house sniffing for people. It's usually me that he finds...with his velvety and slightly damp muzzle against my elbow while I'm at my computer all thinking I'm alone. Once I've recovered from a mild heart attack and threatened to send him back outside for leaving his blanket, I never fail to accidentally make eye contact with him, at which point I'm susceptible to his telepathic message, "Llllet meeee staaaay, llllet meeee staaaay," and even though Jedi mind tricks don't work on me because I'm practical and logical, I always choose to llllet himmm staaay.
The three strikes program, however, overrides even the big brown puppy-dog eyes. It doesn't matter how sweetly the dog stretches out on his blankie, or how adoringly he stares into my face, or how telepathically he begs to stay in the house, the third time the air turns green and people start pulling their shirt collars up over their noses because the dog dropped an SBD, he's out. Now don't go all animal rights on me, I'd even kick out Jeremy Renner if he floated three air biscuits.
I detest having animals in the house. I hate housecleaning and I feel animals with their hair, and whatever dirt they have been into (hey I grew up on a 'real' farm) make it worse so I don't like animals in the house. Yet I love my hubby-poo which means I have to allow his/our dog in the house. The dog is affectionately known as 'Dummy' He fetches rocks for heavens' sake! Not the smartest tool in the shed if ya know what I mean. Hell he might even fetch a wrench, just not a ball or a stick. He loves to come up to you all sneaky like and put his face on your leg. His droopy cheeks hang on the side of your pants leaving slobber marks. Then when you finally reach out to pet him because you can't stand his 'Oh pet me, you love me don't neglect me look' as you reach your hand out he picks his head up and burps!!! I kid you not!!!! then he rolls over so you can pet his tummy! AGH!! Then the loverly thing sleeps at the base of our bed on his own little pillow in the most awkward positions (think upside down-legs in the air- droopy cheeks now pulled down making him look like he is smiling)...THEN ...while you are peacefully sleeping, the noxious gases pass from his ass! NO we don't even get SBD...his farts are LOUD!!! .... Could our dogs be related??? Either that or there is a dog plot out there to slowly take over their owners by poisonous gasses. Whatever it may be...I feel your pain!
ReplyDelete