Well,it has been an eventful few weeks since Frankie the dog infiltrated our lives. Since my last self pitying post, things have slightly improved, but only after it got a whole lot worse. Hang on, the dog is barking......FRANKIE! NO BARKING!
Okay, so first, I realized that my "me" time was much much more important to me than I realized: I really like-no, NEED my alone time, A LOT, and this dog is having none of it. He follows me around the house all day long, clackety clackety clacking behind me, sniffing or begging for food, barking at passing school children, squirrels and pretty much any noise of any kind. And he will never grow up and go to school or even just away like the other people who live here, ever......Hang on, the dog is barking......Frankie! No!
He FINALLY stopped sleeping on the couch in the living room and mostly sleeps in his bed on the floor unless my husband has him across his lap on the playroom couch, where he usually spends the rest of the night snoring,farting and caking the faux fur pillows that live there with his very real and very sticky tape resistant blond fur. This same hair ends up on the black clad asses of every family member who happens to perch there, which is everyone, so we all leave for school/work/gym every morning looking like we slept in a barn. I already feel schlubby and disgusting most mornings from lack of sleep,too much wine and not enough exercise so being coated with dog hair certainly does ice the ugly cake. He usually tries to force his way into the car,which, if I give in, means I can't do anything after I drop off the kids except walk him, which I sometimes don't want to do. He panics if left alone in the car, despite having the radio playing soft rock and two of his favorite toys. I also can't figure out how to disarm the alarm, which means leaving it unlocked, which means he might escape if someone tries to open the door and take my car or anything in it.
If I leave him home, he will stay in his bed quietly,which is vast improvement over the continuous howling and barking jag from week Two. He rushes me when I return home, leaping and yipping. He grabs a toy and runs after me, desperate for a playmate, attention, my soul. This adorableness is supposed to fill my clearly shriveled heart with joy-but it doesn't. It only reminds me of how I used to come home to a scentless, hairless house and get to be alone with my OWN thoughts and do my OWN thing for a few blissful hours, uninterrupted by my loving slightly demanding family....SIGH.....
Second, he peed in my fucking eye. It was morning number five, I think, and he had taken a shit on the dining room rug, while we were all home standing in the next room. After I discovered it, I yelled for him. He came, dribbling pee as he skulked in. I scared him, I know that, but when I went to pick him up to take him outside where he is supposed to use the bathroom, it squirted up in my eye. Now, this would have been hilariously funny if not for the small fact that it just wasn't right then. My husband had a guffaw on hold-his lips were pursed, trying not to let it out in the face of my abject rage. I glared at him, rapidly coming undone. He did not laugh, more sort of coughed and cleared his throat a few times. I herded the kids into his car and off to school, then went inside and sobbed hysterically for fifteen solid minutes. Frankie sat in his bed and stared at me. I am not the weepie type, but the frustration with all of it had peaked with the pee in my eye and the distinct feeling that this experience of having a dog would be much harder on me than I thought. I recovered and got on with my day. I left him home and spent a few hours doing errands and looking up information about dog training, reprimanding dogs, why dogs poop inside,why are dogs so annoying, why do people even have dogs etc. Sorry the dog is barking, hang on a sec....NO BARKING!!!!..Frankie!
That afternoon, when I returned home, there was a lovely bouquet of flowers on the front step. I went inside and, as Frankie jumped,clawed, yipped and went to get his toy, I read the card.
It said "sorry I pooped on the rug-Frankie".
For the first time since he arrived, I felt understood. It actually made me like Frankie a little bit more and feel a little less morose about the whole thing. I ran around the house with him, throwing the stuffed squeaky duck and letting him chase me to get it back. He wasn't so bad for a fat, stinky, barky little guy, and my husband scored major points for sending flowers on his behalf.
However, and this is the third dog related item wedged nicely in my craw: we had a party, and he BIT a whole lotta people. Most of the people(a lot of them CHILDREN) were "nipped" because they mistook his chubbiness for friendliness and pet him in the "wrong spot".
What? Seriously? Well, excuuuuuuseee me you ungrateful little turd, but maybe the house where they fed you to the point of immobility is where you'd prefer to be?
A friend of mine had seen him eating a chicken wing that he had nabbed off some one's plate. She thought it might be better for me if she just let him choke on it- terrible tragedy, mourn for awhile and go back to my life as it was? Sounded good to me and, if not for the broken hearted children, I might have agreed to look the other way. The second chicken wing he got hold of was confiscated by a brave soul who he sank his teeth into, leaving puncture marks on the fleshy part of her hand, just under the thumb. She was incredibly cool about it but Jesus Christ, I used to watch Animal Rescue, and dogs that bite when their food is threatened are not considered adoptable, at least not in New York City.Oh, wait- is that what the adoption place meant by "he can get a little snappy"?.......SHUT UP FRANKIE!!!
Every time we have a set back such as the biting, the indoor shitting, or the excessive barking/hair/ass wiping on rug, I tend to return to my original mantra of "why on earth would we get a dog?", but, alas, it is simply too late. I have had a great time shocking and horrifying my friends, who all fall in love with Frankie on sight. I shrug and say"Frankly, I can't stand him....". It is kind of an homage to Louis CK and how he calls his kids assholes. Initially shocking, and probably true some of time, but deep down he loves them, so what is the big deal? Frankie does't speak English, and I am speaking the truth, sort of, though I can't really comment on the deep down I love him part just yet....NO BARKING FRANKIE!!!!
Anyway, so now, naturally, the onus is on ME to fix this dog problem via expensive trainers and precious time spent focusing on his needs, wants and behaviors. Training this dog is now my pet project, primarily so we don't get sued by someone or incur massive plastic surgery bills because one of our kids wants her stuffed animal back. And I resent the hell out of it. There. To be continued.....