When life goes to the dogs

When life goes to the dogs
Did you ever wish you could snap your fingers and disappear into thin air just like Samantha Stevens on “Bewitched,” or throw down one of those black holes from a TV cartoon and jump in?
Me too.
But with the way my luck has been going lately, I’d jump into the hole and land in a caretaker’s uniform inside a dog pound.
That’s the job I inherited last week. My house became the baby-sitter club for yet another terror after I okayed a six-day, five-night sleep-over of my brother’s dog, “Tim.”
I should have exercised my right as the big sister and said, “Sorry, but I think I’m busy.” But no, I gave in, ignored the caution flag, and took on the task.
As if I didn’t already have more than enough shenanigans with “Griffon,” the magazine-eater who also can hide four litres of black earth under his fur. Now I had the barracuda of dogs living with me.
Don’t tell your dad, “Tim,” but you are one of those canine breeds somebody created as payback when they were bored—a cute yet face-smashed-in “Shitsu” whose nature it is to boss around all other living creatures, even though the doggie space they take up in this world should dictate otherwise.
(And just because your dad gave you the “Gucci” hair-do that includes a tail with hair long enough to braid doesn’t give you any extra points, “Timster”).
I wish I could have warned the other two dogs that the “Tasmanian Devil” was paying us a visit. If language wasn’t a barrier, I would have instructed them to adopt an emergency preparedness plan and take cover.
Instead, I just watched from the sidelines as doggie jaws dropped to the floor and paws were paralyzed in fear of “Tim the Terrible.”
Of course, the initial skirmish of the canine trio might have been less chaotic had we remembered the first golden rule: “Never let ‘Tim’ escape into the free world without a leash.”
All I could think about when he leapt from the truck and tore laps around the yard, and beyond the gate onto the road, was that I’d be shipping “Tim” back to his dad on a pie plate after he’d been flattened by a car in the first two minutes he’d spent with us.
Luckily, I opened the door to the house and he got sucked in—much to the misfortune of “Dot” and “Griffon,” who were sleeping inside at the time. Just picture two dogs imitating what a cat does when it gets startled. I’ve never seen my dogs jump that high before.
When they came down, “Griffon” ran screaming out the open door and hid under the back wheel of my car. I was sure he was scarred for life. “Dot” just barked in offense as “Tim” continued his “Indy 500” imitation around the kitchen and through the living room.
The steam eventually died down and the two stooges and “Damien” came to a place of semi-tolerance after the traditional sniffing ritual of each other’s behinds (I definitely will be a tree the next time around).
The rest of the week was less than a storm but more than a breeze.
“Tim” wouldn’t let his doggie hosts within 10 feet of his kennel and lunged out in protest like something from a “Cujo” movie—albeit all talk and no action.
He also decided his visit was a good time to get diarrhea. Of course, this had to happen while locked in his kennel at nighttime. And house rules are that “Whosoever finds doggie poop cleans it up.”
Guess who that was?
I donned a gas mask, consoled the poor soul, washed him up and cleaned out his kennel, took him to the vet for a check-up, and ended up with a bill for $75 worth of doggie medicine for “stress management.”
Oh, brother.

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