There’s no cure for asshole

“Crows,” my husband said.

I was soooo not in the mood for his cryptic nonsense. “Is that code for Curried Rice On Wiener Schnitzel; Cars Run Over Wet Slugs? Give me a hint.”

“Crows carried them from the landfill and left them in our yard.”

The landfill is conveniently located three miles from our house (as the crow flies). I was not convinced, and went into CSI mode. “There was still meat on this bone, and crows would have picked it clean.”

My husband shrugged his shoulders and walked away. Clearly, he didn’t want to deal with my histrionics. That’s only because he did not possess the intuitive clarity to see the cause and effect. My dogs bark, ergo someone threw chicken bones in my yard.

First off, I have a fenced-in yard, I supervise my dogs, and I bring them in as soon as they start barking. Secondly, what kind of sicko would purposely try to hurt an innocent animal? My mind flew to motion sensors, infra-red cameras, and grenade launchers. If it was crows, I was going to catch them in the act and blow their little feathered butts to kingdom come.

Problem is, I can’t afford high tech chicken bone deterrents. I have my suspicions as to the perpetrator of the fowl deed, but I can’t prove anything. I just find it hard to believe that anyone could be so low as to sneak around in the night throwing chicken bones where my dogs can find them. I guess some people are just born mean.

To paraphrase a quote from Winston Churchill:

“You are drunk, sir.”

“Madam, you are an asshole. In the morning I shall be sober.”

Running the gauntlet

Recently I acquired a new dog, 3 baby gates, 1 large economy size dog crate, and a routine that would rival any special forces military operation. Since I generally rank in the 70 percentile range on problem solving skills, a trip to the garage requires a lot of thought.

Maverick is a Great Dane, who is good with new people, my cat, the neighbor’s dogs, the mailman, and the odd axe murderer. He rarely barks, he doesn’t chew, and he has the largest bladder capacity I’ve ever seen on an animal. What he doesn’t have is any love for my existing dog, Colt.

We’ve had to set up a maze of gates and blockades to keep the dogs separated, we’ve shelled out big bucks for a trainer to come and evaluate the problem, and we’ve said several novenas on their behalf. Still, Mav will go crazy when he sees Colt.

“What were you thinking,” you might ask, “bringing a dog that requires a 300 pound linebacker to control into your home?” Let’s review. Three years ago, I attempted to turn Colt into a therapy dog, until I realized that he didn’t like wheelchairs, walkers, or the smell of old people. Two years ago, I suffered multiple fractures to my shoulder while walking an English Mastiff who yanked me off my feet and dragged me across the pavement. One year ago, I had my heel ripped to shreds by walking into the middle of a dog fight. Obviously, reality and I aren’t on the same page where dogs are concerned. Fortunately, the trainer assured me that the dogs can be socialized.

No possible remedy was overlooked. In preparation for Mav’s arrival, I put new batteries in my friend’s shock collar and tried it out on my thigh. I then removed the batteries, hid away the shock collar, and vowed never to give the police cause to taze me.

I don’t have small children or grandchildren, but my house is baby-proofed enough to keep an army of toddlers at bay. There’s no danger of Legos being flushed down my toilet. If I’m in the kitchen and want to go to the garage, it involves an accordion gate, a sheet of plywood, a metal gate, two doors, and a GPS. I’m surprised the dogs can even smell each other.

As a society, we are willing to go to ridiculous lengths for our pets. I look forward to the day when the dogs can be in the same room together. Meanwhile, I’ll have to photoshop the annual family Christmas picture and plan my trips to the bathroom in advance.