Pennywise (The Fur Babies – Part 3).

It has been raining for nearly 3 weeks straight. I haven’t been able to go boating, haven’t been able to play tennis, and my poor plants are drowning. I’m beginning to think that I’m in the Northwest instead of the Southeast.

Anyway. . .

I wake up to the rolling sound of thunder around 5:45 this morning. Sleepily, I turn on the news to check out the weather. Sho’ ‘nough, severe thunderstorms all. day. long.

I decide that it’s best to suck it up, buttercup, and feed & walk the dogs now, before the rain really sets in. We all know that Max (a/k/a Dumb (from Dumb & Dumber) a/k/a POS1) is a prissy dog. His majesty will not, repeat, WILL NOT, get his paws dirty and walk in the rain. NOPE. He didn’t get the memo that dogs like dirt and like doing dog things like eating and rolling in shit. Max thinks he’s a cat and has embraced this lifestyle well. Demanding, aloof, you know, your basic a-hole.

So I’m up. I’m walking the dogs and it’s darker than normal. They’re not used to walking at zero-dark-thirty. The dogs are doing their usual sniff, sniff, pee. Sniff, sniff, pee. Sniff, sniff, sniff, sniff, sniff, sniff, walk away. Sniff, pee. Oh for Pete’s sake, boys. Just pee already.

My dogs are getting pretty old and their eyesight and hearing seem to be going. Things just sort of sneak up on them like never before. It’s funny and sad, all at once. On our walk, the sewer drain scares the BA-JEEBUS out of Bert (a/k/a Dumber a/k/a POS2). He is back and forth, ready to defend me, ready to run away, ready to see what new friend might live down there, ready to jump out of his fur in fear of sewer monsters. It is in this moment that I’m paralyzed with fear.

Oh. My. Ga! Is Pennywise down there? Is IT causing this trepidation in my dog? HOLY CRAP, IT’S PENNYWISE!!!

RUN AWAY!!!

RRRUUUUUNNNN AAAAAAAWWWWWWAAAAAAAAYYYYYYY!!!

it-pennywise-basement

MOVE IT ALONG BOYS!! I’ll totally sacrifice you for my own safety. That’s why people have dogs anyway, right? I read that book and saw that movie and there AIN’T NO WAY I’m sticking around to check out that sewer. Any clown that wants to hang out in a sewer is CREEPY. I paid attention to all those horror movies. I NEVER go into a creepy room. I NEVER go outside when creepy music is playing. AND FOR GOODNESS SAKE!!! I NEVER check out what might be hanging out in the sewer.

Boys, I’m not sticking around. You better not either. I love you and all, but not that much.

—————————————–

I always thought it odd: my parents never let me watch rated R movies, but I could watch scary ones, despite the rating. I could also read any book I wanted. They were thrilled I was reading so it never mattered what I was reading. You bet I read all of Stephen King. I watched “Hell Raiser” and visited “Nightmare on Elm Street” on many occasion. I played in “Children of the Corn” fields. I never babysat “Rosemary’s Baby”, but it sure felt like it at times. Anyhoo, I just can’t walk past a sewer and NOT be creeped out these days.

Thanks Mom and Dad.

What was the scariest book/movie you remember reading/watching as a kid?

Now Accepting Donations.

So Mini-Me is officially cast free but she has a splint/brace thingy. It’ll certainly make it easier for prom. However, still no driving and no work for at least 2 more weeks. Plus, she has about 3 weeks of physical therapy.  If you don’t remember what happened to Mini-Me, you can read about it here.

Cast coming off

On another note, I have 2 more weeks of mom’s taxi service, shorter work days (a/k/a smaller paychecks), larger fuel bills, and continued indentured servitude as butler/maid to crutch-girl.

Mom's Taxi Service

On another note, the dog is licking my feet right now. I don’t care. It feels good. Oh. So. Good. Since I’ve been working my debt snowball, this is the closest to a pedicure I’ve had in a long while.

Don't Judge Me

On another note, I’m now accepting donations for pedicures and massages. You’ll probably be saving the life of one of my children.

Why are you laughing?

Battle of the Wills a/k/a Showdown Under the Dining Table (The Fur Children – Part 2).

This is why Max is a piece of sh*t. He’s one ticked off dog. He’s pouting and throwing a hissy fit because we are dog sitting. Max thinks it’s been long enough and the other 2 dogs should just go home. Seriously, I brought 2 doggie chicks into the house. You’d think he’d be happy. Now that I think about it, I’ve never seen him show interest in girl doggies. I wonder if he’s gay. No wonder he’s mad.

We have a routine.  Everyone knows routines are good for dogs and children.  Max has developed his own routine.  As soon as I get up, I let all the dogs out and feed them, then let them out again.  Max refuses to leave the patio.  He just stands there with his lower teeth poking out from under his top lip.  I stand over him, ushering him off the patio to explore the lush green grass and plethora of toilet area.  He just stands there and moans.  Yes, he moans.  He whines.  He’s so freaking annoying.  Finally, I have to let all the other dogs in and Max weasels his way in too. I have to get ready for work, so I just let it go.  Big mistake.  Undoubtedly, Max finds his way to the dining room table and then proceeds to sh*t under it. Yep, every, frickin’ morning.  He’s such an a**hole.

It does no good to punish Max. If he were a human child, he’d ride the short bus. Sure, he can do a handful of tricks but he truly lacks the ability to retain most information. Every day, I have to lift his stuffed-sausage body onto my bed because he’s too short and fat to get up on my bed unassisted. He leans up against my bed and whines until I succumb. What does he do? As I pick him up, he growls. He’s the one who wants to get on my bed in the first place!

Idiot.

This is also why he’s a cat. He only tolerates me for what I can do for him. I call him to come downstairs and he looks at me as if I have 4 heads. “No”, he says. “You should carry me”. I lightly kick his butt and he’s propelled to move forward down the stairs. Then he glares at me in rage.

I’m the flippin’ Alpha Dog in my house but Max doesn’t care. As far as he is concerned, I was put on this earth to feed and walk him. And brush his hair. And trim his nails. And take him on car rides. And give him peanut butter as a treat. And bring him lattes.

Loser.

Since the chick dogs have been here, Max has been sulking even more. His whines are more prominent. His poops in the house are more frequent. And worst of all, he demands I love on him and let him spoon me in bed.