True confession: I am seriously considering becoming a Cat Person.
I have three dogs.
For convenience’s sake, we we will refer to them as The Fucking Mutt, The Autistic Dog, and The Shitweasel.
Now, when I got dogs, I knew what I was getting into. I fostered retired racing greyhounds for years. I’m good with dogs. Dogs like me. In fact, The Fucking Mutt is a greyhound. TFM is now 12 years old. She is a rack of bones that I cannot put weight on no matter how much I feed her. Strangers judge my humanity when I take her out in public. When I take TFM to the dog park, she is super schmoozy-sweet to all the humans. They think she is just a darling. And then she dominates their dog. I have seen her hold a 200lb Rottweiler down with one delicate paw until he peed on himself. Dogs know something is up with her. She might be the reincarnation of Mengele or something. She has some kind of lingering soft tissue injury from her days on the track which has resulted in her being on a cocktail of heavy painkillers and anti-inflammatories. These drugs are on a 12 hour dose cycle instead of an 8 hour dose cycle because hey, baby, mama’s gotta sleep some fuckin time. This means she spends half her time high as a kite and the other half in the world’s shittiest mood, like maybe the methadone clinic in my kitchen is closed. She is currently licking the couch like she’s at Woodstock and it’s the last tab of acid.
The Autistic Dog… is autistic. I know, I know, don’t try to ascribe human traits to my pets. Fuck you. I read Aspergers parenting literature to deal with this dog’s behavior, and it works. She self-comforts by wiggling. She has established routines and is distressed if they are disturbed. She obsesses over things. She has vocalization and self-control issues. Right now she is convinced that she has buried a rawhide treat in the pile of stuff I brought home from my office after my job ended. It doesn’t matter how many times I take everything out of the boxes and show her there’s nothing there. She has been whistle-crying about this for three hours now. I don’t even have the excuse that she’s a rescue. I raised her from a puppy.
The Shitweasel was my grandfather’s dog. He is a miniature dachshund and he has only two pleasures in life: being in someone’s lap, and shitting in my kitchen. That’s it. If you don’t let him in your lap, he shoves things until he gets into it. He will stand on his puny hind legs and hop insistently until he achieves enough lift to get over the edge of the couch and onto you, then push his pointy little head into you. He also likes to grab your boobs while he’s up there. For some reason, men find him charming. I can’t really leave the house without some macho man coming up to tell me what awesome dogs dachshunds are. Maybe you should have inherited him, asshole. BTW, go clean my fucking kitchen, there seems to be some dogshit in it.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go feed TFM her dinner. According to the price tag, it’s made out of unicorn meat and the tears of virgin Himalayan monks. And then I’m going to let them all sleep in my bed.