Thursday, March 08, 2007

I Like Dogs...

...and I've owned two in my life. First one was named Finnegan and the other was named Chestney.

I owned Finnegan when I was in my early twenties. I purchased him at a pet shop at the local mall. A mixed breed, part Irish Setter, part mutt. Beautiful animal nonetheless. Back in the day you didn't have to do any of this leash stuff and pooper scooper shit. Open the door and out he went, to do whatever it is dogs do. Sometimes he'd be gone all night. He was a joy to have around. Affectionate, attentive and playful. Only problem was he was besieged by fleas. This bastard could come in the house and within minutes I would have hundreds of these little fuckers chomping on my arms and legs. Try as I may, I couldn't get rid of them. I fumigated, bathed the idiot and even did the now environmentally unthinkable and sprayed the apartment with a toxic insecticide. It got rid of the fleas. Damned near killed me and the dog from the residue.

When I decided to get married I couldn't bear to get rid of old Finnegan, but the ex didn't want an animal around, so my Mom said she would take him to the Farmer's Market and give him away. Bad plan. He knew his ass was in jeopardy, and while she was shopping for veggies and a new owner, ole Finnegan ate through all the seats in the car. That was one damned expensive dog that I no longer owned.

On to the "pure bread" Chestney. The ex's sister-in-law called one night and said they had a great deal on a Golden Retriever. Paper's and such, be great for the boys, yada, yada. As if raising a four year old and a two year old wasn't enough, she said "Hell Yes", we'll take it. So off I went, four days before Christmas, to gather this "present" for the boys. Damned near got myself killed at the end of my own street when some asshole came around the corner at breakneck speed and actually drove through the grass and into my turning lane. It was prophetic. I spent the night in Raleigh, went to dinner with the ex's sister and husband, had a few beers, and left the next morning with dog in tow; in a doggy box.

Once home, I had to clean out the garage, again, so the new addition would have a place to placate itself. Kids were young enough that they had no idea the young pup was even on the premises. On Christmas morning, after all the other thousands of presents were opened, I went out and got the puppy. Cutest thing ever and the boys were just beside themselves. For about two days. It wore off quick.

This damned dog grew at a steroid-induced pace. By three months it weighed 65 pounds. I fenced in the yard because the house could no longer handle him, nor could we. Then I built a doghouse for him out in the yard. He wasn't so enthralled with that. He wanted in the house to wreak his havoc. Boys wanted nothing to do with him, the ex that wanted him had nothing but contempt, and I was stuck cleaning up the shit that was left behind.

We got a call about a year or so later from the BIL that said it wasn't a pure breed. Bingo. Come get this fucker outta my life. And he did. Got a call a few months later from someone in Raleigh that said they had found my dog. HAH. I gave them the pertinent info as to whom they should call to come get the dog.

My point in this drivel? I ain't wanting no dog to fill a void in my life. Tits, yes. Dogs, No.


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