The new and the dead

I hate all three of our fucking dogs. Don’t get me wrong- I love dogs. Just not mine. We have a Pomeranian, a toy Australian Sheperd, and a mutt that is kind of a cross between a chihuahua (I can’t believe I spelled that write on my first try šŸ˜‰ and something else that looks like a rat. The kids made me adopt the Pomeranian. The husband and the daughter pulled a fast one on me to get the Australian Sheperd. A few of my friends and I always met on Mondays to pregame before The Bachelor. Or Bachelorette. Don’t judge. It is the only trash TV I allow myself to indulge in. (Which has nothing to do with the fact that the husband controls the remote 99% of the time). Fuck that fucking forged in fire show. And fuck Gold Rush while we’re at it. In fact, the whole Discovery Channel can fuck off. And especially Game of Thrones.

I watch my ONE show at a friend’s house or on my laptop with my earphones on because God forbid the husband dwell anywhere else in the house for an hour and a half once a week. We have a TV in our bedroom, our pool table room, and the living room. But the TV in the living room (where he prefers to watch so that he is in close proximity to the garage to smoke and the fridge to grab a beer every 8.2 minutes) is the only TV with DVR. I’m not watching that shit with commercials. So I watch on Hulu. Which I know I will forget to cancel after the season is over. And never use it again.

I may sound bitter. That’s because I am. When the Game of Thrones is in season (April 14- I know because he has a ticker on his phone counting down the days until it resumes) every new episode is a fucking event. All the lights in the house are turned off. No one is allowed to open the fridge. The show is on for an hour, right? Fucking wrong! His shit starts at 8:00 pm, when he watches the previous week’s episode. Then on to the new episode from 9:00 until 10:00. And then I SHIT YOU NOT he fucking watches the new episode again. Fucking unbelievable.

Anyway, one night I was pregaming with the girls while the husband and daughter were at the pet store. They knew I had been drinking. They knew I was vulnerable. They knew I did not mean to say “Have at it!” when they called to ask if they could buy this adorable puppy. I mean who in the hell buys a puppy at 9:00 pm?? Yeah, nobody. They had already bought her. From a pet store. WTF? Nobody buys pets from pet stores! Fast forward three years later when the husband’s best friend fucked up and told me how much he paid for the dog. I threw up.

So what’s better than two yappy little ankle biters? In my fucked up head, I thought it would be okay to get a third. My best friend Carol Green adopted a dog from a nearby shelter. They named the dog Bambi (the chihuahua mutt thing). Bambi was (is) obsessed with Carol. Unfortunately, Bambi was also obsessed with killing the chickens that lived in Carol’s neighbors barn. Why did I offer to take Bambi? The Pomeranian looks like a chicken. I do like Bambi best but only when she is not having digestive issues. Which is fucking often. Our gas bill has this little section for notes. The note says ‘bad dogs’. Apparently they have come to read our meter.

We did briefly have another cat. I actually even liked him a little bit. Henry kept showing up at our door every day. I am positive this has nothing to do with the fact that the husband set out food and water for him. Henry was cool. He would climb up our screen door and meow until someone went out to pet him and give him a little loving. In he moved. A few years later, Henry contracted a urinary tract infection. After a visit to the vet and some medication, we thought the problem was under control. We were wrong.

It was a perfect pool day; hot as hell and not a cloud in the sky. My Asian friend had taken the day off and we planned to relax with a few adult beverages. The kids were still in school for a few more weeks and the husbands were at work. I hastily cleaned the house and went to the grocery store. I started unloading the groceries so I could put ice in the cooler and retreat to the serenity of my happy place. Henry was laying on the rug between my garage door and my kitchen- sort of a small mud room area. I did not think much of it as I stepped over him while bringing in the groceries. Until I stepped over him for the umpteenth time without him moving.

I can’t lie. I was pissed. The poor dead cat was going to ruin my pool day. I called the husband to ask what I should do. He told me to put him in a trash bag and he and the kids would bury him after he got home from work. Henry was a large cat. And he was dead. I was not about to try to put a dead cat in a fucking trash bag. I called the Asian to explain my predicament and asked her ETA.

“Within the hour,” she promised. “Just wait for me and I’ll help.”

Okay. So now what? I closed both doors and got in the pool. With a beer, of course.

The Asian arrived and we (she) managed to secure the poor animal in the trash bag. And then got back into the pool. With a few more beers, of course.

Easily one of my worst parenting moments ever. The daughter came home from school first. I met her inside to tell her about Henry’s terrible misfortune. She burst into tears.

Thankfully, the husband showed up not long after that. The Asian’s husband came over as well and the two of them and all the kids buried Henry in the backyard. While the Asian and I watched from the pool.

By the way, I know I misspelled ‘write’. It’s a fucking pun.

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