Sunday, January 16, 2011

That Stupid Dog

That Stupid Dog was not my dog. We got him not long after we moved in together - an event (the moving in) that still seems like yesterday even though it was almost 13 years ago. He (the dog) was Her Dog. Was destined to be her dog. I had a plan: to me, he was just going to be That Stupid Dog.
That Stupid Dog quickly discovered my paperbacks and decided that I should not waste my time reading them, when he could be wasting time eating them. I guess sometimes dogs take it upon themselves to find fiber in their diets? More than once I came home to a half-chewed up paperback with a note stuck to it that said "I promise to replace it". I still wonder if she or That Stupid Dog wrote the notes, but the books did get replaced.
That Stupid Dog loved my cats. I think for awhile, he thought he was one of them. He was outnumbered by them for a few years, after all. But then he was also one with the bunny and the hamster. The identity crises hit often with That Stupid Dog.
That Stupid Dog was not my dog, but every once in awhile he decided to pretend otherwise. It wasn't the constant devotion that she got, but then that is why I am a cat person, and he knew it. Sometimes, though, he would pretend to be my dog, and even after I moved out she would have to tell me "D, call Taz into the house", because he was completely ignoring her. But just sometimes.
That Stupid Dog pooped in my bedroom a few times, and those were not pretty times. Mostly because there was poop in my bedroom and poop is not pretty.
That Stupid Dog knew when I broke up with a boyfriend. And when I got drunk and slept on the couch, That Stupid Dog came out to check on me a few times.
That Stupid Dog. One night just last month I started cleaning out his eyes, and she commented: "he wouldn't let me do that earlier today".
That Stupid Dog got stepped on too many times because he decided that he wanted to sleep. Right. Under. My. Feet. You would think that he would learn to let me know he was there? In my defense, though: She stepped on him more than I did, and he was her dog.
That Stupid Dog got old and he got sick and he got tired and he got weak. But I won't remember that about him.
That Stupid Dog was not my dog. Mostly. He followed her around from room to room with his adoring eyes, because more than anything in the world, he was hers. He knew I didn't need or want that from him, because we had an understanding. But every now and then, when he decided to be, That Stupid Dog was my dog, just a little bit.
And that's how I'll how I'll remember him. He'll always be mostly hers. But just a tiny bit of him will always be My Stupid Dog.

No comments: