Monday, January 13, 2014
My dog hates me
Misty hates me.
No, no, don't try to make me feel better. It's true. She thinks I'm the Ted Bundy of Dog-Killers. As for me, I can see beyond her seven pounds of cuteness. I know there's a sullen, manipulative, bacon-hungry bitch behind those dazzling bug eyes.
Obviously we spend too much time together. She knows I waste too much of my life playing the jellies. I know she pees under the chesterfield. We're like opposing generals and every day we face each other across the household abyss.
See, she has breath like a garbage dump. Like a corpse crawled up her panting tongue and died between her bicuspids. She has bad teeth – it's a common condition amongst small dogs – and we've spent thousands at the vet having her teeth cleaned and pulled.
So I brush her teeth. I have to, or she'll have no teeth left.
Every time I brush her teeth she acts like she's being killed. I brushed them last night, as a matter of fact, and she studiously avoided me all evening and all day today. I would actually call her and she'd go hide behind someone else.
So today I was cutting up sausages for chili and the fabulous aroma of pig-in-stomach-skin sent her skittering into the kitchen. I tossed her a piece and she lapped it up, then assumed her best mooching position, hoping for more.
That's when I got the brilliant idea of making her come directly to me for the sausage. I thought she would gladly come over to the Ted Bundy of Dog-Killers, aka the Sausage Chef, for a tasty morsel and forget all about the previous night's toofie brushing.
She wanted to get the sausage but she didn't want to approach me. I could see the fear in her eyes as she approached me, sideways. It was like she was in four wheel drive, only her stomach was ruling her back feet, ordering "GET THE SAUSAGE" and her front feet were firmly locked in the "DOG KILLER AT THREE O'CLOCK" position.
As she was skittling sideways, she was also peeing on the floor.
Isn't that nice? I scare the piss out of my own dog.
A few weeks ago I was merely trying to help my mom get comfortable in her chair, which she was sharing with Misty. My plan was to pick up the dog, put her on the floor, help Mom, then put the dog back in Mom's lap. Right? Except she thought she was in trouble – because Ted Bundy picked her up – so she started to slink away. I called her back, she slunk faster, I called with more authority, she started to run, so I lost my temper and yelled, "SIT," which made her pee.
Now I'm afraid to look at her, in case she pees in fright. I try to be nice. I really do. But honestly it's depressing to be an ogre in my dog's eyes.
What kind of a human being am I if my own dog hates me?