The Bitch Is Back
At work, that is. And I'm almost grateful to be here and not be surrounded by my new surroundings. Because after two days home alone, I was reaching that point where I start looking around and seeing only all that remains to be done, not all that has been accomplished.
That, and if I don't get away from that fucking dog, I might put her in the oven and have her for lunch.
We haven't had any contact with any of our new neighbors yet. Not that I mind, really, because to me, neighbors have always been more a pain in the ass than a benefit. I'm pretty sure I sealed that deal last night as I roamed the neighborhood shouting obscenities.
Ben had to go to work after dinner. Between the hyperactive dog and the hyperactive kid, I was about to pull my hair out (or theirs), so I put the dog outside. Our yard isn't fully fenced yet, and she doesn't always respond to "Gilda, come," so we have a tie-out for backyard adventures. I tied up the dog and went inside to put the kid to bed. About 10 minutes later, while in the garage getting Bob's backpack out of my car, I hear that "help I'm being gutted" scream that only a pissed-off cat can let loose. And I thought, "hmm, Stewey must have come back, or there's a cat fight, or maybe Stewey came back and the dog got loose."
A few minutes later, I discovered my final thought had actually been correct. The damn special "break-away" collar designed to prevent stupid dogs from hanging themselves had snapped, and Gilda was nowhere to be seen.
Fuck.
She came to the backyard when I called her, but insisted on making me chase her, which only pissed me off even more. I finally caught her, put the collar back on, and started dragging her back to the house--but the collar snapped again, and this time, she wasn't going to come back. So I walked the length of our block yelling "Gilda! Goddammit! Come here!" before I gave up, went inside, called Ben, and poured myself a drink. I had no more taken my first sip before the doorbell rang, and there stood my husband, carrying the dog like a sheep.
"I found her!"
Oh, goody. I can hardly contain my joy.
Ben went back to work. I took a shower, grabbed my drink, and settled in on the family room couch with the cats. I love those cats. They come when I call them (for real). They're always eager to lend a soft purring body to stroke. And after about an hour of fat cat love, my blood pressure returned to normal. So I bid the cats good night and went upstairs, where the damn dog was lying on my sofa. At that point I gave up and laid down on the sofa with her.
If you can't beat 'em, join 'em and make 'em keep your feet warm.
That, and if I don't get away from that fucking dog, I might put her in the oven and have her for lunch.
We haven't had any contact with any of our new neighbors yet. Not that I mind, really, because to me, neighbors have always been more a pain in the ass than a benefit. I'm pretty sure I sealed that deal last night as I roamed the neighborhood shouting obscenities.
Ben had to go to work after dinner. Between the hyperactive dog and the hyperactive kid, I was about to pull my hair out (or theirs), so I put the dog outside. Our yard isn't fully fenced yet, and she doesn't always respond to "Gilda, come," so we have a tie-out for backyard adventures. I tied up the dog and went inside to put the kid to bed. About 10 minutes later, while in the garage getting Bob's backpack out of my car, I hear that "help I'm being gutted" scream that only a pissed-off cat can let loose. And I thought, "hmm, Stewey must have come back, or there's a cat fight, or maybe Stewey came back and the dog got loose."
A few minutes later, I discovered my final thought had actually been correct. The damn special "break-away" collar designed to prevent stupid dogs from hanging themselves had snapped, and Gilda was nowhere to be seen.
Fuck.
She came to the backyard when I called her, but insisted on making me chase her, which only pissed me off even more. I finally caught her, put the collar back on, and started dragging her back to the house--but the collar snapped again, and this time, she wasn't going to come back. So I walked the length of our block yelling "Gilda! Goddammit! Come here!" before I gave up, went inside, called Ben, and poured myself a drink. I had no more taken my first sip before the doorbell rang, and there stood my husband, carrying the dog like a sheep.
"I found her!"
Oh, goody. I can hardly contain my joy.
Ben went back to work. I took a shower, grabbed my drink, and settled in on the family room couch with the cats. I love those cats. They come when I call them (for real). They're always eager to lend a soft purring body to stroke. And after about an hour of fat cat love, my blood pressure returned to normal. So I bid the cats good night and went upstairs, where the damn dog was lying on my sofa. At that point I gave up and laid down on the sofa with her.
If you can't beat 'em, join 'em and make 'em keep your feet warm.
posted by Mitzi Green at 8:40 AM
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