This is the damage from one week of Joe Boxer - assisted at times by Ms. Pepper and Tigger the Dog.
One freakin' week.
Squirrel and Lamb died a horrible death just yesterday. Oy.
And, with the exception of the rope and ball toy, the no longer whole wishbone thing and the rope rose on the bottom row, every single one of them were with us and totally ignored by Tigger the Dog and Morgan the Dog for years and years before meeting their deadly, very moist end this week.
And, to make it worse, the dogs now are working in teams to destroy everything we have.
If only they would use their powers for good... Though the silver lining to this is that TTD is no longer eating her own poop. She's too busy gnawing on whatever toy Joe Boxer or Pepper wants to bother.
Anyone want a dog? Or two? Or three?
Who am I kidding? I just told you - showed you all the damage they can do in a very short amount of time. No one is going to want to take that on. UGH.
Anyone want to adopt a middle-aged woman with emotional issues to their dog-free home? I'm quiet and don't take up much space and I only chew on my food and my regrets...
Joe Boxer and Pepper have been cleared for surgery! Whoo hoo!!!
Joe Boxer, the farty dog, has gained eleven pounds. ELEVEN! He no longer looks like a skeletal horror movie beast which mean’s his boy parts can come off and maybe our evenings won’t be set to the sound track of his sloppy licking of his balls. Ms. Pepper, who’s gained a pound and a half, gets her parts altered next Thursday and Joe gets his snipped two weeks after. I’m not dumb. I spaced out the crazy. We really know how to party here!
Surgery means Cone of Shame and Cone of Shame means awkward thunking off everything, which while funny to watch, makes for a miserable dog. When we first got Joe Boxer, I attempted to put TTD’s old plastic Cone of Shame on him so that he’d stop licking his wounds. Joe was not a fan, so much not a fan that it almost scared him through the wall. So, to prevent any possible remodeling of the house, we’ve gotten a pair of blow up Cones of Shame - which Husband was incapable of blowing up - and yesterday we test-drove them on the dogs.
You can see how thrilled they are to be wearing these classic pieces of wearable art. I mean, their joy just radiates out of the screen, doesn’t it. They don’t at all look like we’re sticking them with hot coals and telling them to like it.
We’re taking bets on how long these blow-up Cones of Shame last until they’re chewed to pieces. Joe Boxer has destroyed so many things in a three-day period that I'm thinking of renting him out to a construction company. That dog could bring down a small building in days.
Side Note: we need a new name for Joe Boxer – because Joe sounds just like “No!” and with three dogs, “No!” is a word we’ve been using way too much. "No!" usually followed by “Stop humping/licking/growling/pulling/etc.” It’s confusing the poor dumb dog more than he already is. Any name change suggestions are welcome - any logical and sane suggestions. Husband has already contributed many, many names to the insane illogical list… Joe Boxer ain’t swift but I’m not going outside and shouting “Galikit!” at the top of my voice. The neighbors already think we're odd.
Things I’ve said in the last few weeks:
“Joe! Put your penis away!
Tigger! Joe! Wrestle in the office.”
“Joe, fix your ear.”
“Tigger! Leave Pepper alone.”
“Joe! Leave Pepper alone.”
“Joe! Calm down.”
“Pepper, don’t growl at me!”
“Joe! Stop licking your balls.”
“Joe! Seriously! Put your penis away. “
“Tigger! Stop humping Joe!”
“Pepper! Stop humping Joe’s face.”
And I’ve said these things more than once. In a day.
Heck, I’ve said all of these more than once in a five-minute period!
A friend of Husband’s came over to meet Pepper and Joe yesterday and asked us who does all the work. I was more than a bit snippy when I shouted over Husband’s attempt answer, “I do all the work and he just throws the f***ing ball!”
I put myself down for a nap. It was necessary.
While I was on timeout, Husband got these pictures of Mean Girl Tigger the Dog and Little Pepper snuggling and suddenly all of the above was worth it. Okay, not really “worth it” but the pictures – and the nap - made all the, “Joe, put your penis away.” And “Tigger! Gentle with Peppers face!” and "Holy crap, Joe! Quit farting!" just a bit better.
I promise one day I’ll write about something else other than dog farts and licking of balls.
Wait; promise me that one day there will be something else other than dog farts and licking of balls…?
Yeah. Putting myself back on timeout.
Because it always happens that way, the twelve-year-old neighbor girl has fallen out of love with cute little Pepper and into love with awkward boney Joe Boxer.
Like, head over heals, sitting with her arms around him letting him drool down her neck for hours love. Like, offering to bathe him whenever he needs it love. Like, drawing a picture of him in art class and then bringing it over so he can have it L.O.V.E.
Note her attention to detail; the wounds on his legs, the skeletal ribs, his totally "What the hell happened to my life?" sad face. Full on puppy love! Also note she left out his massive balls - she is totally twelve!
Now it’s dogs but soon it will be boys she’s mooning over. Gentle goofy Joe is good practice for her upcoming roller coaster of intense crushes and broken hearts.
I guess that is one good thing that has come out of our mountain of poop and fart fumes that is our life now… Yup., it's the little things.
At parties at my grandmother’s house, there would always be a point when one of her overly imbibed friends would grab my cheeks, squeeze them between her red-tipped fingers and then pull me into her overflowing bosom and perfumed cloud, all the while extolling my cuteness. Awkward as it was, I would politely smile pretty, thank her and escape to the kitchen where I’d hide behind my mother herself hiding in the corner. And we would stand there, hoping to be ignored still surrounded in that old lady perfume that lingered about me long after grandmother’s friend’s grabby hands had left the room...
Once, as a freshman in high school, I cut school and went to a party at a senior’s house sure my mother would never find out. I was stupid and didn’t realize that cigarette - and other kinds of smoke - could and would wind itself into the fabric of my clothing and between the follicles of my hair. And that even if I wasn't the one smoking - and I wasn't, I swear - hours later, as I sat down to dinner, my mother would sniff out my rule breaking escape with the cool kids and ground me for smoking and skipping school…
When I was twenty, I went on a date with a guy from Nigeria. He was very nice guy named Arizona - no joke- who told me I was beautiful and took me to a fancy restaurant and some Tom Cruise movie and who bathed in so much cologne that my eyes watered the entire date. For some reason, Arizona took my weeping eyes as some sort of emotional sharing and leaned in for a kiss which I very awkwardly had to rebuff because, um, NO. And, despite the date ending abruptly, days and weeks later I could still smell his inappropriate cologne choice on my winter coat because I couldn’t afford to dry-clean the smell off the sucker…
I miss those very malodorous moments because none of those smell clinging moments are as stinking as I am now. But with farts.
I am covered head to toe in fart - Eau de Dog Fart. Which surprising is not, despite its fancy French name, the most appetizing smell to douse your body in. There is fart in my hair. There is fart on my skin. There is fart in my mouth...
I can’t escape it because wherever I go in the house; the fart-producing dogs come too. And, because of the surprise snowstorm we just got, we can’t air out the house or send the fart-producing dogs outside to pollute the air. I will never be able leave the house again because people will assume incorrectly that I’m producing enough gas to run an electric car or pollute the world. A policeman will pull me over and arrest me for being on drugs since my eyes are watery, redder than an apple and I can’t stop sniffing from my imaginary coke habit. I mean I am stoned on fart. Which can’t be a thing. And yet… here I am, high as a smelly kite.
And you know what doesn’t work, Febreze or any variation of smell sucking or covering spray. You know what else doesn’t work? Candles don’t work – not the plain kind, not the smelly kind, not the fruity kind - candles don’t work. And we don’t have just one candle going, we have enough candles lit to be seen from outer space, and not a dent in the fart air has been made.
And to add insult to injury, both dogs pooped in the hallway this morning because the snow was too cold to use as a toilet. Seriously. Took them out to do their business, they peed then came inside and pooped ON THE RUG.
Remember when I said I was going to be positive this year, yeah… hard to find a sliver lining in that… Oh wait, here’s one; at least the poop was solid.
That’s what its come to, my friends - AT LEAST THE POOP WAS SOLID.
Off to wash fart out of my hair and then sit as close to a flame as my Afro will let me.
Anyone want a dog? Or two? Or three?
My name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me