Well, I’m in love. And I’m officially in a relationship.
A sapphic, incestuous tryst of bestial proportions.
Because I’m henceforth spoken for. By my fur-niece. Who I’m stealing very soon.
(50 Sheds of White – the love story of home-wrecker and non-housebroken…)
This bish genuinely thinks she’s a lap dog.
And I just don’t have the heart to hold up the mirror like Elephant Man’s antagonists, and reveal her true acromegalic nature to her. Thus, the above’s what happens. The first thing she does when I walk in my parent’s house (that’s where she lives most days) is try to sit on me. While I’m still standing. Then, the second I sit down, I get an ass in my face as she prepares to turn me into her human sofa.
And I love it. I could care less if I left that house to meet god himself covered in remnants of her coat and looking like yeti with excellent fashion taste; she makes me so dogdamned happy (wait – is this how normal human ovary owners feel around newborn members of their own species?). So much so that I’m not sure if I want to abduct her in the middle of the night and hold a whole “Gone Girl” style press conference feigning ignorance about her disappearance tomorrow… or… just go get a new dog-ter of my own to keep Minnie company. I know, I know… I said – not three weeks ago – that yet another family member unfamiliar with the art of toilet operation would most likely just be a nuisance. And that hasn’t changed. But the thing is – between bath giving and manual accident-induced rug sponging efforts – I’m kinda already assisting in the maintenance of this dirty delightful goliath. And by “kinda”, I mean a cleanup level of The Wolf a la “Pulp Fiction”. With a dog that big, ya hafta be. ‘cause even the smallest fecal casualty is tantamount to dinosaur diarrhea. Every cleanliness effort’s a fckkn job that requires a clipboard, bluetooth, and logistics team to handle.
Any why’m I willing to manage it like Winston would?
Maybe it’s ’cause I love her from her fist sized wet nose to her lethal slave whip tail.
Maybe it’s ’cause I’m afraid my mom will send her off “to the farm” if she keeps it up.
Or maybe it’s just ’cause I’m trying to prove to myself I’m ready for kid number two.
So, dear readers, I beseech you for your input: If I’m doing all this helping hand hound stuff anyway, does that support the insane child side of me (which only comprises 98.9% of my mind) begging the brain-mother for more mutts? Or does it just reinforce the universal truth that it’s easier to be loveable and understanding and willing to handle the innumerable foibles of an ambulatory explosive excrement grenade disguised as an affable fleecy beast… when you’re just the fun sporadically visiting aunt?
I think we all know how this ends… :/