My dog is gay and he thinks we’re married.
I’m serious. I’ve written about my retarded dog previously but just to refresh: my dog is a tardhound and he ain’t getting any better.
I noticed it when we first got him from a Border Collie rescue mission way out in Idaho. They picked him up on the side of the road and clearly he was busted from square one because his foster masters raised him with cats. When we got him he was house trained and the first time he went out to poop, I noticed that he immediately covered it up. I asked the nice lady who voluntarily drove my dog all the way to Chicago and wouldn’t even accept a tip: “Was he . . . raised by cats?”
“Oh, a lot of puppies do that. He’ll grow out of it.”
He didn’t. But that doesn’t make him gay or retarded, just poop finicky.
The retarded part is easily proven by the long list of highly expensive, cherished, or necessary household items he has eaten. Here’s a brief excerpt:
• My cell phone. $125.00
• My daughter’s retainer. $300.00
• My daughter’s replacement retainer. $300.00
• A hand crafted dragon puppet. $120.00
• Half a bag of whiskey-filled smuggled German chocolate truffles: $15.00
• A hand carved hunting horn with my great, great, great uncle Lorenzo Ezekiel Garlington’s initials carved into it that’s been in my family for generations. Priceless.
• An Etch a Sketch
But I can live with (or without) all those things. I got a new cell phone and my daughter’s teeth are fine. What’s bugging me is how the dog is turning into my gay wife.
Maybe it’s because my actual wife, Darth Garlington, isn’t home that much. Maybe Ty sees an opportunity. Maybe he’s just trying to be helpful. I don’t know, but the little bastard’s nagging me all the time and it’s getting on my nerves.
Dog owners, explain this behavior.
He pre-follows me everywhere. He doesn’t walk behind me like a real dog, no. He scampers ahead no matter where I’m going, backwards, staring at me.
I thought at first it might be tracking behavior, maybe a little bloodhound work. But no. The only thing he’s tracking is our relationship.
He putters ahead of me, his eyes all arched and pleading: “Are you going this way? This way? How about over here? See how much we have in common—I know which way you’re going. It’s like we’re soul mates.”
He comes into whatever room I’m in and instead of lying at my feet with my slippers in his mouth, he stands across the room and stares at me, inching closer and closer, staring: “Is now a good time for petting? How about you pet me now? Now? What about now?”
When I sit down to work, he stands in the middle of the room and glares at me. If I look at him, he’ll take a step toward me then back up, sit down, and obviously look away like he wants me to know he knows I don’t have any time for him but he’s not going to let me know he knows that, no, he wants me to know he’s just perfectly fine. All by himself. Right here. Like three feet from me. Just licking himself, hanging out, don’t mind him. Ladida.
He licks my toes. A lot. I don’t ask him to do this and it just weirds me out. I mean the first time it was cute but now it’s like all the time and he does it while he’s STARING AT ME. I tell him to stop and he steps away then glances back at me like I’ve hurt his feelings. Like he’s saying “You don’t think I’m hot anymore!” It’s just twisted.
And don’t even get me started about his preference for 4th grade boys.
I know a lot of you see a pattern here and you’re thinking a) he needs to pee, or b) he’s lonely and just wants some attention. Well, you’re wrong. That dog spends more time in my lap than I do. And when he jumps up into my lap, he rolls over on his back, completely heels-to-Jesus, shoves his stupid head up under my chin and moans. Tell me that’s not gay!
I had another border collie, Chelsea (R.I.P.), and she did the same kind of things but I chalked it up to her being a bitch and her being 15 years old. Guy dogs aren’t supposed to do that kind of thing, particularly untrained idiotic guy dogs. They’re supposed to lay around and lick dirt. They’re supposed to crap and sleep and when you call them, they walk over and let you pet them on the head for a minute then go back to sleep.
You let a regular dog out into the yard and he’ll walk right past a burglar, a cat, a rabid barking squirrel, and seven pounds of raw steak, just to crap on the sidewalk then lay down in the shade and start snoring. That’s a dog.
My dog leaps into the backyard bark first, his ears all up, prancing—PRANCING!—with his tail in the air like some British office queen shouting “Now just see here, SEE HERE, you scoundrels! Ruffians! I will NOT tolerate your behavior!”
Other dogs walking by are clearly unimpressed, barely managing a canine ‘whatever’ bark. Then he’ll run back over to stare at me. I swear his eyebrows are raised. I swear he’s all middle-management. My dog could work retail. “Can you—did you—Good Lord, the nerve of that mixed breed terrier to just urinate on the fence like it belonged to him.” Stare. Stare. “Well, are you going to call the cops?”
Damn gay dog.
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Originally posted 2007-02-23 10:48:00. Republished by Blog Post Promoter
