Thursday, September 15, 2011

Two to type with, eight to point with.

After two and a half years I still get so excited when I see my dogs "relieve" themselves outside.  It's a moment of celebration.  I clap my hands, pet them, love them, give them treats because I know for at least two to three hours I do not need to concern myself as to why or where they're sniffing throughout the house.

Tulip and Tank
10 Weeks Old
 I had this whole house training thing down before they moved in.  I had read the books.  I knew how it was done before we even lost our last dog.  Crate training.  I knew there would be accidents, but with consistency and love, the training would be completed within a few months and my carpet would be, for the most part, saved.

Yeeeeessss, weeeelllll.  I do not want to point any fingers, but since I type with only two, I have plenty to spare.  You see, I'm the one who stays home and smells residual pet stink on warm summer days or on winter mornings when the house is bundled up against the Arctic blasts.  I'm the gal who must search out and destroy the spots because if I don't, I hear my dearest spouse complain that the house smells like dog urine.  This is all fine and good but I was raised with Catholic guilt.  It's an inbred trait and has been handed down through generations of Catholic bloodlines.  Even though it's not my fault that the house smells like dog pee (I'll get into that in a moment), I can't help but feel guilty about it and this thoroughly pisses me off (pardon the pun).  I say we Catholics need a guilt box to throw all this miscellaneous shit in and bury some place next to our local church.  It belongs to them.  Let them have it.  I certainly don't want I anymore.  (Boy, that was a ramble?!)

I digress, the reason it's not my fault that the house smells like doggy pee is that my dearest love of my life, apple of my eye could not stand the sweet puppies whimpering their first night in the crate.  Oh dear God in heaven!  They were going to keep him up all night (despite the fact that we got them on Memorial Day weekend).  They were just too cute.  He had to have them on the bed with us.  Who's following me here?  The crate?  The consistency?  It just never happened.

So now we have yet to have more than one or two good full nights of sleep because our wee little puppies have grown into full sized dogs.  Granted, they are still small dogs, a Shih Tzu and a Lhasa Apso; however, Eric and I are large adults and we never could afford that king sized bed.  Tulip, the Shit Tzu, sleeps down the center of the bed sprawled out on her back in what we lovingly refer to as, the "porno dog" position.  Tank, the Lhasa Apso, because he's terrified of the "porno dog", must sleep next to the headboard above/on my pillow.  This makes it awful when I take him out after it's been raining.  The smell of a wet, furry dog on my pillow that insists on snuggling up to my face.  Disgusting.  In the meantime, Eric and I are crunched up into small angles hanging off the sides of the bed.  When the dogs shift or kick, it's all we can do to hang on for dear life.

So, I type with two fingers which leaves me eight to point with.  After I take the dogs out to potty again for the fifth celebratory time today and sniff out the stinky pee spot, I'll have time to point all eight fingers at the culprit of my angst and love. 

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