But can’t live without apparently. There’s little more humiliating than circling your dining room table in pursuit of your dog and whatever the hell said dog just made off with clenched in his jaws. Caleb is working on improving his shame game–he at least flashes an expression of “Hey, I am who I am, lady, and really, YOU’RE the idiot for not living in a vacant warehouse.” Then he hauls ass, top speed, in canine glee, because hey, he is who he is.
This post could well have been titled 3,454 Things My Dog Doesn’t Need. I am proud and delighted to report that my dog is not the worst dog in the entire universe–he can learn, but our boy is a willful little Teutonic canine mashup. Progress is incremental, but he can and will “sit” and “touch,” so hey, something. The worst dog? That special honor is bestowed upon another rescued dog in his Caleb’s obedience class. He is getting there, Caleb is, just not at a speed with which I am comfortable. He is trying. And I mean “trying” as both a verb and adjective! I’m trying too. I am trying not to lose my mind and verbally spew what I’m thinking when he pulls me down a mud-soaked path in the park. I’m trying not to recoil when he re-eats his own vomit in the backyard. (Sorry if you are reading this over the dinner hour.) But when you rescue a dog, you commit, that is what you do–you commit! So we are committed. And maybe I should be committed.
Since 3,454 things would make a super long list, and ten is a good number for lists, here we go. . .
10. Dogs don’t wear baseball hats. You’ll never need one, Caleb. Ever.
9. Likewise, dogs don’t wear shoes.8. Or socks.
7. Placemats. Now here I at least kinda get the allure. They’re very likely to contain crumbs, or maybe you’ll score the mother lode and land one with butter or honey or chicken grease rubbed in. And if you’re wondering why our placemats contain foodstuffs residue, you obviously don’t live with boys. It can’t be just my boys who find napkins so luxurious or inconvenient they don’t want to use ’em, right?
6. Recently added to his thievery repertoire are dish sponges. He loves shredding the yellow part, but seems weirded out by the scrubby green surface. You know, it’s almost like he’s brushing his teeth, so maybe this one can stand. Maybe not.
5. Books. I feel the certainty of the divine that you’re not actually going to read Night by Elie Wiesel. You can look all academic and even respond to “Sit,” but Caleb, you are no scholar.
4. Athletic supporters. ‘Nuff said.
5. Bath towels. If I thought there was any chance you’d accomplish incidental cleanliness, I might get behind this one too. But yeah, no.
4. Ink pens. Now you’re just an a-hole, dog. And even Oxi-Clean teamed up with aerosol hair spray cannot remove the stains completely. And I know my way around a can of hair spray, people.
3. Kleenex tissues, preferably used. These are just snacks now. My dog is an idiot.
2. Rubber bands. You do not even want to know how I know this.
1. Slippers. Like shoes, they’re not a canine necessity, because you’re a dog! Unless it’s mid-summer or mid-hot flash at which time I radiate the heat of a thousand suns, I am a human popsicle. I need my slippers, Caleb, I do. Importantly: I need two slippers. Two is the magic number for me, but I’m short one slipper thanks to ol’ Sparky. I miss my old, blue slippers. They had at least one good season left in them, a couple months at least, but no. *sigh* What are the odds that my friend Jill just happened to have an extra pair of slippers–still in their original packaging–in her trunk? Turns out the odds were 100%! Thanks to Jill’s footwear generosity, I’m not still fuming mad, and Caleb lives to wreck more stuff another day.
I am not even going to mention the fact that within twenty-four hours of my son getting his wrist splint fit and created, the dog bolted with it, and chewed and slobbered all over the thumb support strap. I hadn’t even gotten used to the idea of my #1 son needing the splint when my #2 calls me at parent-teacher conferences to tell me that the dog split with his brother’s splint. See, because that would make two blog posts in a row that I barely mention the splint, and thus far, that’s workin’ for me. Not denial, no, just not high focus. Plus, eleven isn’t a good number for lists. Obviously.
And also I don’t want to hear it from anybody who thinks I’m overreacting to MD because my son “doesn’t look that different, I don’t know what she’s worried about.” I get to decide how my child’s diagnosis hits me, not you. Until you have the conversation with your child about his or her likelihood of losing his/her ability to walk and requiring durable medical equipment, you can butt the hell out.
PS–Did no one notice my mad enumeration skills? #NotEvenClose