…of my self respect. I once-upon-a-time had a bloggy-type thingy. But it was on Myspace and included a wide variety of ridiculosity, anywhere from emo posts like, “Ok, Virginia can officially burn to ashes and rot in hell forever. The whole state,” to my 8-step lesson in “How to Know if You’re a Douche.”
But, friends and neighbors, I feel I have grown. And matured. And because, in the immortal words of Stuart Smalley, “Today I celebrate the fact that my underdeveloped sense of identity allows me to fit into a wide range of situations.” Like jumping on the bandwagon of all others who have started similar exercises in vanity such as this and starting a blog that nobody will read. But since I enjoy mental masturbation just as much as the next guy, which is essentially all blogging really seems to be, I’m happy to do so.
Clayton’s back after a 5 day trip to LA, where I had to fend for myself, the puppies, and kitties by clubbing an animal every night and dragging it home by myself. Or by going to a restaurant. Whichever… Point is: defenseless and alone.
While part of me is ridiculously, gleefully happy that he’s home again, I couldn’t help but feel bad for him since his first night back, after he arrived home so very tired and jet lagged and ready for HIS. OWN. BED. was filled with all kinds of complications from me and the dogs. Case in point, a small except from last night, in which I rolled over at some point, whacked myself in the head with my own hand, and proceeded to demand his attention by waking him up:
Me: *half awake* “Did you just jump on my head?”
Me: “Hey. You. With the beard. Did you jump on my head?”
Him: *snorts, looks around, sees that it’s just me, closes his eyes again* “Huh…? Uh………no.”
Me: “You sure?”
Him: “Pretty sure.”
Me: *glares at him suspiciously*
Him: “Why would I jump on your head?”
Me: *continues to glare at him suspiciously*
Him: “I can feel you staring at me. Go back to sleep.”
Such nuggests of bedtime conversation often come up at the very late hours in Chateau Davis. I feel bad for him, really, but he tolerates this quite well. Usually I’m pestering him about zombies, though, so last night I felt like he got off easy.
And then the dog began.
A little bit of history: every now and then, predictably around 2 or 3 am, Nell will get some random gastrointestinal distress that causes her to wake up in the middle of the night and lick her dogbed and the carpet next to my side of the bed like it’s made out of crack. Obviously this is her instinctual response to crop grass when her stomach’s upset, but I have had serious talks with her, on more than one occasion, about how she should go puke in the toilet on her own like any wasted adult, and then slink quietly back to her bed so that Mommy and Daddy can have sleepytime. And does she respect my wishes? Of course not. She gets the insolence from her father, I think.
She really gets into it, too, this carpet licking, giving it these long, sweeping wet strokes with that mile-wide hound’s tongue. Cute dog, but she really loses her elegance when she does that. She also makes these little snuffling noises as she does it, so what usually wakes me up is the snorting noises of a pig rooting for grubs, right next to my ear.
And, in the past, this has meant my putting on pants, sliding into a pair of Clayton’s clunky, too-big shoes, and going to our “backyard” to graze the dog in my PJs. (Yep, you read that right.) She munches on grass, while I try to not fall asleep standing up,eventually convince myself that a wet butt is worth sitting down in the dew, and then try not to fall asleep sitting on the lawn. This grazing process on her part continues until her tiny little gut transforms into a firm, round potbelly full of fauna, ensuring that she’ll successfully be able to poop grass balls for about three days. Her grazing sessions last anywhere from a half hour to an hour and half (that longest one, predictably, being during winter, when there was no grass and Mommy’s buttocks took two hours to thaw themselves from slabs of butt-shaped ice they’d become). Then we clump back upstairs, where I try to salvage three more hours of sleep. I tell you all this for a purpose, I promise. And that purpose is really so that you feel sympathy for me.
…kidding. Actually, it’s so that you can imagine how relieved I was when I called my mom for advice on Nell’s bellyaching one evening and she patiently (for a 2am call) informed me that I should give the dog Pepto Bismol, and then asked if she could go to sleep now. And I was all, “Seriously?” and she was like, “Yup.” And I was like, “For the dog?” And she was like, “Yes. Now HANG UP THE PHONE.” Turns out that she called her vet for similar advice on one of her dogs some time ago and the vet advised her to give the dog about a capful of the stuff. And I did a happy dance, at 2am, and was almost sorry when Nell quieted down and went back to sleep before I could try out this new knowledge.
So, fast forward to last night. Where my poor husband had to endure not only my Inquisition and the pig snuffling at 3:30am, but also my getting up, turning on the light, and wrestling with my poor sick dog trying to get her to swallow a capful of Pepto. In hindsight, it’s quite lucky that my dog is as sweet as she is, b/c it occurred to me, as I had her in a very humane headlock that I learned while watching the Ultimate Fighter, trying to pry her jaws open with my fingers, that the teeth of a 40 lb. dog look quite big and pointy when you’re three centimeters from them. (I imagine this is the same for any dog over 10 lbs., actually.) I finally pried her mouth open, poured the capful in, and watched in amazement as it all came oozing back out of her mouth like the slime in Ghostbusters. I caught most of it in my hand, and then spent another 5 min. methodically wiping it on her whiskers while she tried to lick the gooey mess off her face. Then it occurred to me–now almost fully awake–that I’d opened the jaws, but had forgotten about the tongue, which is what she used to neatly *ptoey* the stuff back out. Brilliant dog, that one. It wasn’t until I woke up the next morning that I realized I could have used an eyedropper. Typically, this realization came to me much in the same way certain insulting comebacks do from the argument two days prior, like a sudden lightbulb moment first thing in the morning. Instead, it made sense to try and pour thick liquid down her throat from a plastic cap. Dog:1, Owner: -2 for stupidity.