PSA Against Drinking (Badly)

#attractive

I had a bad Wal-Mart experience/ I had a Wal-Mart experience.

Vive la Jerk! Vive la Jerk!

My dog hates the bath. I'm not sure why, since he's never had any traumas, and since when he goes out on boats, he seriously considers jumping into lakes. But today I realized the reason for his incessant scratching was that he had some fleas on him. They were hidden in his fur, and I hadn't been able to see them until I bought a brush for him. So I went out to the petstore, bought a hundred bucks worth of stuff for his increasingly bald, itchy, behind, and came back to bathe him. He was an eighty-five pound porcupine, except each prickler was a super strong limb. We spend forty-five minutes battling each other, until finally he gives up and lets me put him in. This is not without the use of a homemade (not by me) puppy cupcake--a pupcake if you will--and "super-strong"suction cup straps to keep him in place. Then it became a waiting game for him to decide when next to try to escape, breaking free of his nylon and suction shackles. 

This is after the forty-five minutes, before I got him in. It seemed to be a sincere possiblity I was going to have to hire someone or get married or something in order to get fleas off of him.

I finally got his jerk-ass in the bathtub. Please note doggie bathtime bondage straps. This picture was taken during a very smug moment where he was relaxing on my knees. I'd grow to regret not just hurrying up and getting him rinsed, since he then became not only a horrifically strong creature, but a slippery one. And once the dog is covered in flea-killing poison, you can't very well give up.

Eventually my bathroom looked like this.

I looked like this.









And this jerk looked all smug and de-flead like this.

Little did I know that a simple bathttime would turn into a revolutionary war, in which I am the oppressor, and Oakley is fighting for all he believes in. I am scratched to ribbons, and he is now flea free. You're welcome you stupid rescue. #shouldanamedhimdjango

PSA Against Drinking Badly

"They can't really charge you for anything if your dog eats a cat."

Sentences that happen in casual conversation with best friends. 

It's not like my dog is all that...um...murderous or whatever. It's just that he likes to playyyyy, and when animals can't withstand his 80lbs and powerful punches to the face, they tend to get hurt. Nothing bad has happened yet, but man...every time he encounters a small dog, they just snarl at him immediately. It's like they just see his bouncy little ears, all-muscle body, and that goofy look on his face and just know what's coming. 

So this new thing I do, is I take him to the tennis court at night and let him run around. I would obviously play fetch with him...but he thinks the rules of fetch are: I throw the ball, you run after it, step over it, and smell something gross on the ground. Then he thinks I'm supposed to get it and throw it some more so that he can eventually lose all interest entirely. It's rude. 

NO PROBLEM OAKLEY, I LOVE TO SIT OUT ON HUMID NIGHTS TO BE EATEN ALIVE BY MOSQUITOS AND IGNORED ENTIRELY BY MY RESCUE DOG. I mean, like, does he not get that I rescued his furry little blonde behind?

What a jerk. 

Anyway. Last night at the tennis court, after he so classily pooped right on the doubles line, a cat darted through the night and towards Oakley. So for this one horrible moment, I became convinced that something awful was about to happen. 

And that brought up the question: what exactly am I supposed to do if my dog actually eats a cat tonight?

Do I just...amble on home? Do I throw it...do I throw it away? Can I get arrested? Will Oakley go to Paw Prison?

Don't worry, I didn't have to find out. The cat wisely got the eff out of that situation. 

Then we went home.

I'm supposed to have a blog, so I should probably do that.

I have had a blog for four years now, technically, and yet I've published like ALMOST nothing. I have spanned the ages of 19-23. Literally the most interesting time of my life, and I have said nothing to anyone on the internet.

It's not like I don't have anything to say, either. I don't mean in a big, dramatic, "I have a lot to say about the human experience" kind of way. Just like, I talk non-effing-stop, in general. My best friend and I text each other three minute videos alllll the time just talking about nothing.

So I figure really I should be doing some of my talk here, since I'm like, supposed to or whatever.

The Hardest-Won Glass of Wine in History

So my puppy is about 17 weeks old. This means he has an unbearable amount of energy at certain points during the day. Turning him from a cute puppy into something a lot more like this:

Then he passes out and spends a while sleeping in the coffee table. Like ya do.

Then, when he's in that spazzy mood from the first picture, I take him out and he spends the entire time doing this:

So. Ya know. He's just...he's just something else. So on this occasion, I wanted to get the last ingredient for a surprise dinner for Sean when he got home. Since it was a surprise, and I wanted it to be done by the time he got home from work, I couldn't have him pick it up. I don't have a car right now--for the first time since I was 15 1/2 by the way--because it's getting fixed in Maryland and I moved to Raleigh before it was ready. Relax, I'm getting it next weekend. 

This meant I had to somehow get to the grocery store. I say 'somehow' because of what an ordeal I now know it was to end up being. Usually it wouldn't have been a big deal. Harris Teeter is like a mile away (I refuse to google maps it because I'm afraid I'll find out it's much closer than that and I am giving myself more credit than I'm due). So if I had a normal puppy this would be perfect! He needs exercise. I need something from not so far away. 

It seems like it's going to be just fine at first. I have my headphones in and I'm listening to Philip Philips' cover of Volcano, and it's cool-ish out. Then after about fifty yards, the 'Walk' we were going to go on becomes more of a 'Carry' for one of us, and more of a 'Lug' for the other. So halfway there it starts raining. Then it's pouring. Then we're there. I don't even bother asking anyone if it's okay for me to carry him around. So I hurriedly find the last ingredient and then think, hey, you're here, might as well get some wine. Then I think, okay, a Merlot for Sean. But you don't like Merlot. You don't really like wine, but hey, you should. Nab yourself a Pinot Noir. Hm. It's much more cost-efficient to buy a box. So two boxes it is. 

I have bought them before I realize I now have to carry two boxes of wine and a fat puppy home in the rain. I was smart enough to bring a VS tote so I wouldn't be lugging grocery bags, but still. So I step outside into the rain. Everyone is fleeing to their cars with newspapers over their heads like it's the end of the world and a dry head is the only way to survive. And we set off on our trek. I am carrying all of my crap. He is fidgeting and keeps knocking my headphones out of my ears. By the time I get within sight of my apartment, I am dragging my headphones behind me, my shoulders are wilting, and my dog is soaking wet. But then at this point, just when I would be the most annoyed, he is being the most adorable by licking rain drops from my cheeks and looking up at me with dem eyes. I realize once I'm home that boxes of wine are cardboard boxes of wine and cardboard is not waterproof. So now I have two bags of red wine. 

Cheers to the freakin weekend. I'll drink to that.