Did Joan Crawford ever have dogs? If so, I think I can understand her behavior! (Joke. It’s a joke.)
For the past three days, one of my dogs (Ezra) has been:
a) eschewing food, and… [TMI, coming right up!]
b) …um… releasing stuff in the middle of the night.
On both Tuesday morning and Wednesday morning, I awoke to find a puddle of poo in the kitchen, by the back door (bless her heart, she couldn’t find a way to get the door open without those handy opposable thumbs). At about 3:00 on Thursday morning, she woke me up barfing. Then I arrived home from work yesterday to a lovely pool of black diarrhea on the living room rug (I guess she figured I liked it when she made poop soup on the floor, since whenever I found a puddle, I would pet her and cuddle her and speak softly in her ear…).
We went straight to the vet, who diagnosed her with gastroenteritis (sp?), gave her two shots and some pills, told me to feed her hamburger and rice for a couple of days, and charged me 83 bucks (with my broke ass).
But hey, whatever works, right?
So this morning I get up earlier than usual, because I’m going to have to COOK breakfast for my dog. All goes well; she LOVES the rice and hamburger (naturally) and gobbles down her first meal in three days while I got ready for work.
Well.
I guess the other two were jealous that she got the gourmet goodies, because then THEY became Pooches of Satan!
The little one took a nice steaming shit right behind my feet as I stood at the bathroom mirror brushing my teeth (mind you, all three dogs go outside first thing in the am, and unlike Ezra she wasn’t sick, so this was strictly a Vengeance Poo), and then sat calmly next to my feet and waited for me to notice it before darting out of the bathroom and under my bed, while I screamed like a banshee and threatened her with the vaccuum cleaner.
After that little episode, I decided to let all three dogs out again, just to make sure everybody was good and empty…
… and Dog #3 decides she’s not coming back inside. Instead she invents a delightful game whereby she comes within two feet of the backdoor (which I’m holding open, cheerfully calling “CornPone! Come on, Baby!”) and then darts to the other end of the back yard. Then she repeats the process.
Finally I got fed up and went out after her, and she ran into the corner of the yard, behind a huge evergreen which is conveniently located right next to the corner of the fence. In other words, there’s NO WAY I can get to her…
…or so she thinks.
Honey, I donned rubber gloves and a rain coat (the branches are prickly) and crawled my ass in after her (I’ve still got the pine needles in my hair to prove it). I got a leash on her ass, and dragged her all the way to the door (she fought against the leash, she collapsed and refused to walk, she tried to run back under the tree… I kept dragging), spitting, “Do you really want to go three with me, because if you do, you just bring it on–I’ll kick your ass!” for all the neighbors to hear (although I don’t think any of them did).
Once all the dogs were inside, I scooted around turning off lights before I left for work…
…and when I got into the bedroom, there sat the little dog, on my bed…
…right next to a puddle of pee.
Again with the banshee scream.
This time, however, she darted into the guest room, so I just shut her ass in there, put CornPone in the crate (by now Ezra the Poo-Puddle Pumper was cowering in her little bed), and stomped out the door, slamming it behind me and shouting,
“NO MORE WIRE HANGERS!!!”
P.S. The living room rug is now in the garbage. 