i don't know, maybe deep down, we want the dog to eat the cats' shit.
maybe when he came trotting into the middle of the living room yesterday afternoon and a little nugget of it popped skyward out of his overstuffed mouth and rolled briefly on the "hardwood" floor and i gave an exasperated yell and the other nugget fell effortlessly away from his slackened, fearful jaws, i wasn't so much angry as disappointed. disappointed that he hadn't kept our family secret secret. disappointed that he was now forcing me to act in accordance with publicly approved disciplinary guidelines for pets. disappointed that he forced us to turn our turned away eyes back upon him in the face of his open and odious transgression.
i can't pretend i didn't see that or hear that. i mean, there it was... rolling gently toward my shoe.
now, don't get me wrong. i think dogs eating shit is a foul, foul thing. it's repugnant. but how pleasant is shoveling that shit yourself, really? and at least they enjoy it. they treat the act like a culinary event of epicurean proportions. they sniff at it and roll it around on their tongues. they chew at it like it's one of those oversized tootsie rolls that i see come october in my mother's halloween basket of candy which sits in the foyer. they stand right in front of your face so you can wonder, knowing deep down, but still turn a blind eye thinking, "i can't know that's what's in there." but still you find yourself growing a little more wary when he goes to lick the baby's feet and hands.
the mistakes of the puppy... the uninitiated... the unlearned.
speaking of unlearned, the puppy totally schooled ozzy yesterday afternoon. it was one of his few redeeming acts. mere moments prior, i had come dangerously close to flying into a near-homicidal rage. i was overdosing on progesterone and fadi's mediterranean buffet when i heard ozzy "cleaning up" underneath the dining room table. oh, who am i kidding? it was probably the evil venom of starbucks coursing through my veins that threatened to push me over the edge. my progesterone is no match for that overpriced sludge of the devil. either way, i investigated and found a large puddle of crystallized urine. that's puppy urine, for those of you not well-versed in the habits of our felines. only one of them ever pees outside the box and, when she does, she's kindly enough to do it in the toilet i like to call the bathtub.
it was evident professor harry pants had given a lesson on the art of peeing on trees; but, since there were no trees to be found in our condo, he was forced to make an example out of a mid-century chair leg. i no longer recall if this was immediately before or after the shit event. i do know that i then put the baby in the sling and began trying to hook the leash up to a very frenetic dog and was forced to divert too large a ration of my attention to that task giving the baby the perfect window to snap the chain once again on my grandma's necklace which he had snapped once before in a nursing incident which i had just, finally, taken to an asian girl last week who fixed it for free and now i'll have to shamefully show my face there again and beg her to take my money this time or else i'll have to find another jeweler because i can practically guarantee that this will come to pass once again in short order.
so i feel the pressure around my neck suddenly give way and i'm feeling the urge to start throwing punches. but since brian was still at work, it all had to sizzle back into me and join up with all the other unrealized violent outbursts during their monthly meeting deciding on what form they prefer to take when they eventually resurface as a unified, emboldened super power one day in my mid-60's when i least expect it. and i get the leash attached to the dog.
he pees out in the courtyard and tries to keep dragging me around, but i'm not having it. it's a work day for crissakes. once he realizes that our chosen path is headed straight for the door, he picks up his leash in his mouth, digs in all four of his furry, little heels and begins a tug of war. you could see the whites of his eyes. we struggle and struggle and he finally gives up as i let him trot up the stairs dragging the leash behind him.
i open the door and there's ozzy. after a winter's hibernation, he's ramped back up his efforts to dart out the door and into the stairwell every time we come back in. despite my stepping on him at the threshold and flattening him like the oversized beefcake pancake that he is, he slides right on out... maybe he'd oiled up this time. or buttered up. so harry is riled after his game of tug-o-war and darts back out after him, chasing him at top speeds down the first flight to the landing whereby ozzy spins around and runs as fast as he can back up the stairs and in the door, possibly burning a calorie in the process.
it was really funny.