As you well know, I have never considered myself a dog person. We had a couple of dogs off and on while growing up, but I was never close to any of them, as they were never inside dogs. There was one dog named Bananas that took up residence at our house when I was in middle school. That dog lived to make my life miserable.
I made a weekly attempt at preparing pancakes for my family which would generally turn out to be inedible. And so they were tossed out of the back door to Bananas. Who would then carry them around in his mouth for an hour or so. And then bury them. Without fail.
But he really ruffled my feathers once when I tried to sneak out of my bedroom window late at night to meet up with some other delinquent type middle school friends. As soon as I had one leg hanging down nearly to the ground, Bananas rounded the corner first growling, and then quietly biting me on the ankle.
Some time after that, Bananas mysteriously disappeared. Not my fault. Pinky swear. It was probably the pancakes.
Another dog that took up with us was a large German Shepherd named Ben. Ben was not gentle. He “came with the house” when we moved to Mineral Wells, Texas. Ben was the best watch dog in the world, but would only let me dad near him. So I had a healthy respect for Ben as I kept my distance. I never ever tried to sneak out of that house as I was certain that I would have been a hors d’oeuvre for Ben. Ben stayed with us through another move, but had to be relocated out to the country with another family when he took to chasing and catching local joggers.
Then there was Max, the toy Pekinese, that I had in college. He didn’t really count as a dog though, because he weighed 3 pounds soaking wet. I never bonded with Max, and gave him to a rescue group that found him a wonderful home with a pasta chef.
For nearly 30 years I’ve remained dog-free and planned to stay that way.
Until Mater lumbered into our lives. Mater, who is now tipping the scale at nearly 60 pounds, thinks he’s a lap dog. He loves nothing more than to love and be loved on. I’ve let him know that I’m not at all down with him licking my face, as the other members of the pack will allow him to do willy nilly. I mean, come one, I’ve seen where his tongue has been.
And by the way, the plug-in pheromones that I talked about a few weeks ago ARE WORKING LIKE A CHARM. I sewed up his $35 orthopedic bed and he has not tried to eat it since.
Tonight I was sitting on the couch and Mater curled up on my lap. A wonderful moment of bonding ensued. I say “moment” because as soon as I settled into the preciousness of the experience, Mater began licking his nether-regions with all the gusto he could muster. And then he began LICKING MY LEG. And such a stench arose.
I jumped up and ran into the kitchen, wherein Fiddledaddy announced that the distinct aroma of dog poop had wafted into the room with me.
So I ran to a different room.
The smell followed. I could not escape it. IT WAS ON ME.
I declared a time-out for myself, locked the bathroom door, and took a scalding hot bath. And then burned my clothes.
Later I heard Fiddledaddy tell Mater, “Mommy is not down with that, either.”
One more episode like that and I’m going to have a pancake with Mater’s name written all over it.
Just kidding. Sort of….
Have a wonderful weekend, my sweet friends.