Tuesday, November 25, 2008

A bar of soap should be on my plate

I have no idea if the little scribbler guy is on this page.

Remo tagged me with it, and I am still working the kinks out over here (heh heh heh, she said "kink") so I have no idea if it will make it.

Fair enough. I have to think of some blogs to mention anyway, and I am pressed for time (have to go pick up the oldest soon, he's at a band thing, and---this will make Remo look outside to see if it's raining---I STAYED HOME.

But on with my post.

About 2 months or so ago, my brother called me and asked me if I would take in his dog. The dog is a Chihuahua, about a year old, and the poor little guy's name is "Coco." Very unmasculine, but I didn't name him. Anyway, the long story short is he asked me to do it because he knows Mr W likes the dog and the dog likes him; and he thought it would be better if the dog wintered with us (my brother lives in Northern Az, where it snows) and maybe, well "If he works out okay and everyone likes him, you guys can keep him, it can be kinda a present for Mr W."

I should have known better.

The only present from that dog I get are the tiny, brown kind. Well, unless you count the puddles.

He is not neutered. He marks.
He was not crate trained, but I won.
He doesn't even really come to his name. (I can hardly blame him.)

My lap and my attention are not what he seeks, unless I am in the kitchen, then all of a sudden, I'm his best friend. The rest of the time he treats me with the kind of indifference I last experienced from the boys I went to high school with.

I believe the dog hates me.

However, I am patient, and I still feed him and seek him out, making an effort to procure his friendship outside of the food I might have on my plate.

But even my patience has limits. And I think, if I keep it up, he will start answering to what I usually call him.

"Where is that Little Bastard?" I usually ask, through gritted teeth. Paper towels/chewed up shoe/peed-on item in my hand.

I had no idea I called him that so frequently until last night. It was Audrey's turn to feed him and Ben was with her in the garage, helping her out. Suddenly, he's doubled over in laughter.

"Mom. Did you hear that?" he gasps out between giggles.

"What? No," I answer.

"She went into the house, swung the door open, and said, "Where is that Little Bastard-dog?"

Ooops. In my head, I could almost hear her saying that....and I couldn't stop laughing.

I walked into our room and held my wrist out to Mr W. "Just smack it," I instructed him, as I tried to gasp out the story between giggles myself.

I had a word with Audrey later, about not repeating what she hears come out of Mommy's mouth.

And I made a promise to myself to refer to the dog as "LB" instead.

(I'll have to finish the tagging part later, it's time to go get the boy.)


Remo said...

That's not a dog - that's a doorstop.

Missie said...

Poor little dog! LOL

Bridgett said...

From Coco to Little Bastard, eh?



womandriver said...

A friend of mine had a cat named DC. After a few months I asked what the name was for... her dad always said 'that damn cat" hence the name... maybe you just renamed him... does he come to it??? HEE HEE