If I don't post here for awhile, please call the Chicago police and have them check up on me to make sure that I am still alive. I say this because I think my husband may be trying to kill me. Apparently he has ruled out anything as obvious as slipping some rat poison in my Diet Coke or "accidentally" backing his car over me when we're cleaning out the garage--no, his method is far more subtle, one that will be difficult for even the most savvy of detectives to figure out.
To put it a very Sopraonos-like way, I think he's trying to whack me by suggesting that we get a 3rd dog.
That idea seems harmless enough until you know that we already have 2 Labrador Retrievers. Young Retrievers who have so much energy that our house actually shakes when they chase each other up and down the stairs on an average of 47 times a day. Big Labs who are tall enough to stand up on their hind legs and help themselves to whatever they like off the kitchen counter in the blink of an eye, including a bag of bubble gum mistakenly left there by my daughter. That caused me to leap out of bed at 3 in the morning, after I was awakened by the unmistakable sounds of a dog choking. I immediately rushed the Lab to the emergency vet clinic and only realized that I had been wearing 2 different shoes and had a lump of hardened toothpaste on my left cheek after I got back home with the now totally fine dog.
Ours are heavy Labrador who climb into our bed and insist on sleeping on top of me, so that I am practically pinned onto the mattress. (One time the black Lab slept so close to my head that when I opened my eyes in the morning, all I could see was black fur. For a second I thought I had gone blind during the night.) Labs who eat so much that I am constantly at our local pet store to buy giant bags of expensive dog food. I'm at the register so often that the chatty saleswoman just picks up the conversation where we left it off the last time I was there..."So anyway, Les, I told him my husband that he'd better take me on a vacation or else I'm going without him. And I tried that stuff you told me about for that rash on my arm and it didn't work. Okay, that'll be $98.46 and I'll see you soon."
It's not that I don't love our dogs--I do very much. But it is the same way you love a hyperactive toddler. As cute as that tot might be and no matter how much you enjoy being with him, you always breathe a sigh of relief when he goes down for a long nap. Now multiply that toddler by 2 and add on 130 pounds of energetic dogs both of who seem to have bypassed the sleep gene and you see why I'm an exhausted Dog Nanny. Neither dog seems to have the gene that allows them to be amused by any dog toy on the planet, because they immediately destroy any toy given to them. Chewbones that promise on the label to "give your dog hours of enjoyment!" are decimated by these 2 in a matter of minutes. The only thing that interests them is physical activity , so much so that I'm like the guy in the TV ad who kept saying "time to make the doughnuts", except that I keep muttering "time to walk the dogs."
In short, our dogs never stop moving, chewing, drooling, eating, jumping, or scrounging for inappropriate items to put in their mouths. And that means that I never stop moving as I take those inappropriate things out of their mouths, clean up the chewed remains of some vitally important item that I will now have to piece back together, figure out what it was and where to get another one, feeding them, pulling them down when they jump on couches, beds, and even the kitchen table. (Yes, the kitchen table. For one memorable period of time our yellow Lab would leap onto the table and take fruit out of the bowl and then leave it strewn around the house. Combine this with the fact that the same Lab liked to chew the heads of my daughters' old Barbie dolls and leave the them near the fruit and it looked like we were members of some weird cult, one that made its followers leave half chewed banana peels and mutilated Barbies in the corner of the living room in a bizarre worship ritual.)
I first caught on to my husband's murderous plot one afternoon when we were watching the dogs play with a ball in the backyard.
"You know what I think when I watch them having a good time like that?" my husband asked me.
"That you hope that they're wearing each other out and that they'll come inside and sleep for a few hours?" I said. "Or that they won't eat your cell phone again?"
"Nope," my husband shook his head. "Look how cute they are and Labs are so much fun to be around! Let's get another one to add to the mix. How much more work can it be when we already have these two?"
I was unable to form any coherent words at that point, which may be for the best. I'm going to act like I have no idea that my husband is trying to off me by getting another big dog, the very thing that will immediately sap any strength or mental stability I have left at this point. Let's fact it, I'll be a goner the first time I try to walk all 3 of them at the same time. So I'm just staying very alert and watching to make sure he doesn't try to sneak in the murder weapon--a bag of Puppy Chow.
To put it a very Sopraonos-like way, I think he's trying to whack me by suggesting that we get a 3rd dog.
That idea seems harmless enough until you know that we already have 2 Labrador Retrievers. Young Retrievers who have so much energy that our house actually shakes when they chase each other up and down the stairs on an average of 47 times a day. Big Labs who are tall enough to stand up on their hind legs and help themselves to whatever they like off the kitchen counter in the blink of an eye, including a bag of bubble gum mistakenly left there by my daughter. That caused me to leap out of bed at 3 in the morning, after I was awakened by the unmistakable sounds of a dog choking. I immediately rushed the Lab to the emergency vet clinic and only realized that I had been wearing 2 different shoes and had a lump of hardened toothpaste on my left cheek after I got back home with the now totally fine dog.
Ours are heavy Labrador who climb into our bed and insist on sleeping on top of me, so that I am practically pinned onto the mattress. (One time the black Lab slept so close to my head that when I opened my eyes in the morning, all I could see was black fur. For a second I thought I had gone blind during the night.) Labs who eat so much that I am constantly at our local pet store to buy giant bags of expensive dog food. I'm at the register so often that the chatty saleswoman just picks up the conversation where we left it off the last time I was there..."So anyway, Les, I told him my husband that he'd better take me on a vacation or else I'm going without him. And I tried that stuff you told me about for that rash on my arm and it didn't work. Okay, that'll be $98.46 and I'll see you soon."
It's not that I don't love our dogs--I do very much. But it is the same way you love a hyperactive toddler. As cute as that tot might be and no matter how much you enjoy being with him, you always breathe a sigh of relief when he goes down for a long nap. Now multiply that toddler by 2 and add on 130 pounds of energetic dogs both of who seem to have bypassed the sleep gene and you see why I'm an exhausted Dog Nanny. Neither dog seems to have the gene that allows them to be amused by any dog toy on the planet, because they immediately destroy any toy given to them. Chewbones that promise on the label to "give your dog hours of enjoyment!" are decimated by these 2 in a matter of minutes. The only thing that interests them is physical activity , so much so that I'm like the guy in the TV ad who kept saying "time to make the doughnuts", except that I keep muttering "time to walk the dogs."
In short, our dogs never stop moving, chewing, drooling, eating, jumping, or scrounging for inappropriate items to put in their mouths. And that means that I never stop moving as I take those inappropriate things out of their mouths, clean up the chewed remains of some vitally important item that I will now have to piece back together, figure out what it was and where to get another one, feeding them, pulling them down when they jump on couches, beds, and even the kitchen table. (Yes, the kitchen table. For one memorable period of time our yellow Lab would leap onto the table and take fruit out of the bowl and then leave it strewn around the house. Combine this with the fact that the same Lab liked to chew the heads of my daughters' old Barbie dolls and leave the them near the fruit and it looked like we were members of some weird cult, one that made its followers leave half chewed banana peels and mutilated Barbies in the corner of the living room in a bizarre worship ritual.)
I first caught on to my husband's murderous plot one afternoon when we were watching the dogs play with a ball in the backyard.
"You know what I think when I watch them having a good time like that?" my husband asked me.
"That you hope that they're wearing each other out and that they'll come inside and sleep for a few hours?" I said. "Or that they won't eat your cell phone again?"
"Nope," my husband shook his head. "Look how cute they are and Labs are so much fun to be around! Let's get another one to add to the mix. How much more work can it be when we already have these two?"
I was unable to form any coherent words at that point, which may be for the best. I'm going to act like I have no idea that my husband is trying to off me by getting another big dog, the very thing that will immediately sap any strength or mental stability I have left at this point. Let's fact it, I'll be a goner the first time I try to walk all 3 of them at the same time. So I'm just staying very alert and watching to make sure he doesn't try to sneak in the murder weapon--a bag of Puppy Chow.
posted by Lesley at 11:10 AM
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