I remember something a fellow young man told me about 20 years ago. We were in a tent with a couple other young men on a scouting campout. My father was one of the leaders at the time. He was fun and dorky. He would participate during games of capture the flag, and he would teach weird geography songs to those who were willing to learn them. I don't remember the whole of the conversation that led up to this comment. I think it was something along the lines of one boy saying, "You're dad's goofy."
I, thinking to deflect some ridicule, said something like, "I know. He can be pretty dorky sometimes."
Then the other boy said, "I wish he was my dad."
I had never seen either of these other boys' fathers at any campout or any other scouting event. Their fathers never played basketball, they didn't sit by their sons at church, and they certainly didn't sing goofy geography songs around the campfire.
A couple weeks ago, a friend of ours, who is going through a very nasty divorce, asked us if we wouldn't mind watching her three little Maltese dogs for a while until all the divorce stuff was finalized. The place she's staying doesn't allow pets. So we took them in. We suddenly had responsibilty for three very cute, but fairly smelly, fairly impossible-to-keep-clean, long-haired, yippy, annoying, dogs. It did provide some motivation to complete the privacy fence. That took 2 days.
Well, as it turned out, the privacy fence was not quite as secure as we thought. The mighty leader of this trio, named Marshmellow, dug under the gate while we were out for an afternoon, and they disappeared.
I was not sad, but I was a little disturbed that these ridiculously expensive pure-bred dogs had decided to independently wander the streets of Independence, sniffing meth and what-not. I drove around the neighborhood for a bit, looking for fluffy white and red splotches in the street. They were not located.
We ashamedly contacted the owner, and to our surprise, she responded by saying something like, "Well, someone probably picked them up and is taking good care of them. It's fine."
And joy abounded. We were free of the poopy little gremlins and we could go back to our non-dog lives.
But Becky saw how Samantha had embraced Marshmellow, so they went out and got the substantially less cute and slightly less stinky Peanut Butter...
But, that's not the end of the story, folks. After Peanut had been in our home for all of two days, the three fluffy demons from hell came YIPPING BACK TO OUR HOUSE, covered in dirt and occasionally vomiting some kind of sticky white substance which looks like a combination of hair, possum flesh, and tartar sauce.
2. They shed. Their hair gets all over everything and it smells as much as they do.
3. They bark. They bark all day at everything that isn't food.
4. They eat food.
5. And then they poop. In your yard. Where your feet go.
6. They jump on your furniture with their little claws.
7. They bite. If they don't like something, they don't file a complaint, they just bite that thing.
8. They have other nasty things living on them, like ticks and fleas and moray eels.
9. When you go on vacation, you can't just turn the AC off and leave your house. You have to find someone to watch your dog, otherwise you'll come home to a dead dog, which smells even worse than a live dog.
10. Speaking of which, they sometimes get sick, and then you have to pay a guy who acts like a doctor to prescribe medicine or perform hip surgery or hit it with a shovel.
So that being said, meet Peanut Butter. Or Peanut. Or Pee Pee.
She's a Pug mixed with some other kind of thing that's not a pug. Probably a Chihuahua. So she essentially looks like a perpetually pissed-off Chihuahua. She's fat and lazy and she eats table scraps and doesn't bark and Becky just bought her. Like a pair of shoes.