The current rant.
The Hounds of Hell
Y'all, in this picture, does it NOT look like Bo is
Special love box!
Y'all! Don't you want to join my shiny
So I haven’t written about the dogs lately. Actually, I haven’t written about
much lately, now that I think about it. But still. I totally have not written about
And I bet y’all are all wondering how they are. Are you? Aren’t you
concerned? Well, they are Bad. They are always, always Bad. They are the
baddest dogs in the whole, bad dog world. And also, they hate you. Unless
you are made of ham. If you are made of ham, please come over.
Anyway. The dogs are kind of making me insane, and I think the best
evidence of the insane is this email I sent to Al and Hannah last week. Just...
I mean, just read it. And then you can ask yourself why I am sending emails
like this, but you can also sigh and think that it is really, really sad that I have
totally lost my mind.
The other day, I was outside waiting for Bo to go to the
bathroom, and I got frustrated, and finally hollered, "Bo,
either poop or get out of the kitchen!"
At which point El Dukay collapsed on the ground, laughing
until he was wheezing, "It's...shit or...(gasp) get off...
the POT...and...and...if you can't...(gasp)...take the
HEAT...(gasp)...get out of the kitchen. NOBODY POOPS IN THE
Actually, sometimes Bo poops in the kitchen.
Now, does anyone else think this is, like, the funniest thing in the world?
Besides me? Is it just me? Okay, fine. But the sad thing is, this email is
completely true, because I did, indeed, instruct Bo to poop or get out of the
kitchen, and Bo does, indeed, sometimes poop in the kitchen. Because Bo
is just cool like that.
Let me tell you what is quickly becoming a Major Problem in my house, and
how this Major Problem is exacerbated by the fact that dachshund dogs are,
for what must be one seriously fucked up biological reason, very low to the
ground. Actually, let us discuss the biological evolution of the dachshund for
a minute. I mean...why? They’re just...backs! They have so much back!
Why did God say, “And, on the Sixth Day, I shalt make a dog that is composed
entirely of BACK, and add some of those stubby little tyrannosaurus arms
where there legs should be, and also a tail, and a ridiculously large bladder.
And sharp teeth, and I shalt make them willful and stubborn, and they shalt
not pee outside when it rains, so sayeth Me.”
I mean, it just makes no SENSE, people, because what purpose does this
body shape serve? Besides making it impossible for them to wear Cabbage
Patch Kid clothes? Their natural predators are those that fall into the
category of "Everything That Is Taller Than Nine Inches, Including The
Vacuum Cleaner." I mean, imagine wild packs of dachshunds roaming the
German countryside, hunting for expensive footwear. Heil, dur Hund! Bring
us something with a kitten heel!
Anyway. So that was...a tangent. But because of the dachshund's shape, if
they are fat (see: Bo) then their chests and stomach parts are, like, practically
scraping the ground when they walk. Now, apparently when it rains, and the
grass is wet, the scraping of wet grass against one’s soft underbelly just
TOTALLY SUCKS and the dogs HATE THIS OH THEY HATE THIS and they
WILL NOT GO OUTSIDE IT HAS BEEN RAINING HAVE YOU COMPLETELY
LOST YOUR MIND, MOM, OH MY GOD WE HATE YOU.
When it rains, they will not go outside. Not even when it stops raining,
because the grass is still wet. They will get all excited about going outside,
and will be all, “OOOUTSIDE!” and then they will take great, tremendous
dachshund leaps off of the back step, realize midair that the GROUND IS
WET, REPEAT, THE GROUND IS WET, ABORT MISSION ABORT! and they
will somehow contort their strange little bodies midair, in such a way that they
completely turn and end up behind me, probably somewhere on the sofa,
while I stand in the doorway and stare, blankly, at where they used to be.
For they are fast.
Anyway. The Not-Going-To-The-Bathroom-Outside-When-It’s-Wet business
has been a particular problem lately, because last week, it rained pretty
much every day and they were totally NOT going to go outside, and really,
they’ll just pee in the garage when I’m not looking, because that will be SO
AWESOME, THANKS, and I love nothing more than buying paper towels and
Formula 409 in bulk. The people at Costco think I am a janitor. A janitor in
really fabulous shoes!
If the dogs got allowances, I would totally make them pay for their own
cleaning supplies. But I don’t give them allowances. And really, that is
probably the only Bridge on the Road To Total Dog Insanity that I have yet to
cross. All the other bridges are so far behind me, they are but a fond
memory. Like, ha, remember back when I was all, “Oh, they are NEVER
getting on the sofa, NOOOO SIR?” Hee. HA HA HA. See, because now they
OWN that sofa. It is theirs. To the exclusion of other people, including
guests. “Guests!” they say. “Go home! Sit on your own sofa! For clearly
there is no room for you on ours. Also, we hate you! Unless you are made of
The dogs are particularly wonderful to have when I have guests, because this
is when they decide to show off, particularly Tasha, who is madly in love with
Timmy and who literally throws herself at his face whenever he shows up.
(And, y’all, I am really not kidding, because the dog is in love. Like, to the
point where this has become An Issue. She wants to have his puppies.
When Timmy comes over, we have to sneak him past Tasha. And as soon
as she sees him, she flies through the air and lands on his face, and inserts
her entire head into his mouth and licks his uvula, shrieking “BABY YOU’VE
COME BACK NEVER LEAVE ME AGAIN!”)
And she’s not the only one who makes a complete spectacle of herself in
front of company. Let’s just review what is a normal evening in my house,
when guests are present and the dogs are mingling. This is so nice. This is
my life. Sigh.
Guests: [sitting on the couch]
Dogs: [hating on the guests who are sitting on the couch]
Guests: [totally not bothering anyone]
Dogs: [VERY VERY BOTHERED BY THE GUESTS SITTING ON
Guests: [Do not realize that they are being hunted]
Guests: [Have skin exposed]
Dogs: [See exposed skin]
Dogs: [Have won.]
But it’s not limited to the biting. No. There is also the showing off of the
bodily functions. Why is this cool? I don’t remember this being cool when I
was in high school. Or elementary school. Or ever.
Pugsley: Need to! Poop.
Guests: [Ha ha. Talky. Light conversation.]
Pugsley: [Jumps from sofa. Stands directly in front of guests.
Engages poop hunchback stance.]
Miss Doxie: OH MY GOD.
Guests: Um. My...shoe?
Miss Doxie: NOTHING! YOU SEE NOTHING! AVERT YOUR EYES!
Guests: But. Okay.
Miss Doxie: [Scrambling.] AHHHHH. GET HIM DUKAY GRAB HIM
Miss Doxie: GUESTS! NOTHING TO SEE HERE NOTHING HERE JUST
LOOK OUT THE WINDOW PLEASE AND HAVE YOU
NOTICED MY TREE.
Guests: WHAT A LOVELY TREE.
El Dukay: [Cannot catch Pugsley because]
Pugsley: [Is slippery]
Pugsley: [And also, fast]
Pugsley: [And also, if he feels threatened, he will]
El Dukay: AHHHHH PEED ON ME PEED ON ME
Miss Doxie: [Wildly spraying random surfaces with cleaner.] Guests!
PLEASE CONTINUE TO GAZE UPON THE TREE.
Guests: WE ARE INDEED IMPRESSED BY THE TREE. IS IT OAK.
Miss Doxie: [Has no idea]
Miss Doxie: IT IS OAK!
Miss Doxie: [Scoops up turd]
Miss Doxie: [Sprays El Dukay with cleaner]
El Dukay: AAAIIIEEE MY EYES
Miss Doxie: [Tosses turd to Dukay]
El Dukay: [Cannot figure out why he does not date someone with cats]
Dogs: [Have won]
So, basically, the tricks my dogs know are (1) biting, (2) pooping for company,
and (3) peeing when frightened. But there are more. We can blame El
Dukay for this one in particular, but now, when you tell Tasha to “Show your
tits!” she stands up on her back legs. And shows you her tits. And feminists
everywhere just dropped down dead.
But, you know. It’s sort of cute. Shut up.
Anyway, that’s what’s going on with the dogs. They’re awful. I adore them in
all of their awfulness. The worse they are, the more I am entertained. So
come on over, and let them poop for you! And then YOU can check out this
tree I’ve got going on in the back yard. It might be oak!
One of these days, I'll train them. I'll train them to sit, and speak, and play
dead, and fetch the paper, and do the taxes. Yeah. One of these days.
If, you know. I ever poop or get out of the kitchen.
It occurs to me that most of this entry