Temper Tantrum

When my parents died they had two dogs. Both dogs were acquired from dire circumstances, both are female, both came with a name that is a people name, you know like Pauline, as opposed to Patches, and both have names that start with the same letter. Pretty freaky, huh? One is a Bichon Frise, the other, a mixed breed, has a lab looking kind of head, and a Corgi looking kind of body. The mutt dog has this really rambunctious personality. My parents had her less than a year before they died. We got the mutt from my oldest sister, who got it from the family of a neighbor lady my Nephew had made friends with. The neighbor lady had gotten too ill to live alone anymore, and her son came and got her to come live with him. Well, the Mom and the wife clashed, so my sister offered to care for the Mom, and along came the dog too. My sister did not like the dog, so when the little old lady went to the quilting bee in the sky, my sister pawned it off on my Dad. My Mom was technically the third little old lady who kicked off on this dog since the little old lady neighbor had gotten it when her little old lady friend had died. This dog knew my parents, particularly my Dad, were ill. She would sit by my Dad day and night. It gave my Dad the creeps, but she was constantly watching over him, and would become distressed when he had episodes of doing more poorly than usual. She also was aware of how fragile my Mom was and did not jump on her or jostle her.

Bichon Frise, for those of you who do not know, is French for either "never shuts the fuck up" or "constantly barks and whines" depending on the dialect. I have, since I met it, referred to this dog as the White Witch. My Mom loved this fucking dog; that right there should have been a clue to the fact my Mom was losing her marbles. My parents acquired the White Witch when an aunt of a coworker of my Mom’s died and the aunt’s son, who ended up with the aunt’s dog, wanted to have it euthanized because he did not like it. My Mom thought this was horrendous, and immediately went and got the dog. My Mom loved dogs, in particular fuzzy lovey ones that looked like stuffed animals, reference the story about the sheepdog as another example. My parents had the Bichon more than a year, less than two, I think, before they died. I personally am not fond or anyone or anything that whines, particularly in annoying little dog form. So, I was never too fond of the White Witch. This dog was a great comfort to my Mom. My Mom liked to hug her, and have her sleep with her. The dog did absolute wonders for my Mom’s psychological well being as she was dying, and nothing I could have talked Medicare into paying for would have been better for her in the twilight of her life. Consequently, the White Witch became a beloved pet in spite of her myriad of infuriating tendencies.

After my parents died, because my sister had been living with my parents, and would continue to live in the house temporarily until she found an apartment, the dogs became her pets technically. After my Dad died, and we had him taken to the funeral home, and went to the nursing home to tell our Mom, I took my sister and the dogs to my apartment. After about two weeks, the day after I buried my Mom, my landlord, who knew both my parents had just croaked, in writing informed me that while he sympathized with my loss, I needed to remove the dogs or he would have to take further action. Even though he knew they were not staying, and that they were family pets, and that I knew it was total fucking bullshit that his insurance had gone up because of my dogs, he pulled this stunt. The real problem was my sister was not picking up their shit, and was tossing cigarette butts all over the place to boot. She swore to me it was not her, but come on people, she appears and the poop and cigarette butts appear; I pry her off my couch, the poop and cigarette butts cease. So now my sister is responsible, and I use the term loosely, for the two geriatric chicky momma dogs.

So, anyway...

My youngest sister flew with my nephew to bring him to his new home with his Mom, my oldest sister. And I got to dog sit, which actually sucked much less than I anticipated. The dogs had a good time with the kitties, and vice versa. They seemed to recognize the house. They had fun being with someone who took them out every couple of hours, and they liked having lots of stuff to eat and drink, and almost immediately found the cabinet where I stashed the biscuits I had bought for them. However, the White Witch annoyed me to the edge of sanity. She barked all the time, and she has really stinky breath. So, I suffered not only the noise but also the stench. Yuck! She would never stop. She is pretty old for a doggy, and appears to me to be in pain. It seems to me like she really has a hard time getting around. The vet and I have been gently suggesting to my sister that the time is coming to euthanize her. I have never been able to figure out why she constantly barks. It is a trait of the breed to be seriously fucking annoying, but no matter what you do; the dog is constantly generating unnecessary noise pollution. Regardless of what I tried, she barked and/or whined. I carried her. I put her down. I held her. I talked to her. I took her out. I brought her in. I sang to her. I told her stories. I watched TV with her. I asked Jesus to please help the little doggy shut the fuck up. I gave her treats. I fed her people food. I gave her nice stuff to lay on. I called my sister and asked her how to make her stop. I considered having her put to sleep. I considered hopping on a plane with her and bringing her to my sister. I considered putting her in a kennel until my sister came home. I could not take it anymore. So I picked up the stinky noisy little dog, and put her out in the hallway, and slammed my office door in her infuriating little furry face. She sensed the door might drown out her barking, so she barked louder. Miraculously, when I returned to working on my computer, I blocked out the din.

Eventually, it occurred to me that I was thirsty. That’s when I remembered the latch on my office door is broken, and I have been on an intermittent quest to replace several broken latches on the interior doors of my house. I tried shaking the door, banging the door, pushing the little thingy that sucks in when you turn the knob in with a pair of scissors, no luck. Then I took off the hinge pins, but could not pry the rusted painted lower hinge apart. Now I had to pee, and the little doggy was barking even more feverishly. I tried many things to get the door open somehow. I could not get out the windows either. The wieghts and mullions are shot, and they would not stay up, I simply do not have enough limbs to keep from slamming myself in the window, and get out it at the same time. In sheer frustration, I acknowledged I hated the door anyway. Its damage reminded me of the incident when the policeman had to break it down, and I was planning to systematically replace it and many other doors in the house. So, I smashed the damaged top panel of that fucker to smithereens, all the while terrified the barking whining demon dog would be hurt by flying debris. I still could not get the fucking door open, and I could not get it off the hinges, and even that livid, I did not have the strength to bash in the undamaged lower panel. So, I reached into the hallway with a broomstick, and dragged over some cans of paint. Then I pulled one inside, stood on it, and climbed over through the broken panel. Then I went and got a hammer and knocked that motherfucker off the hinges. Miraculously the little doggy was unharmed, and had not peed anywhere while she was banished. I got a drink, peed, and took the dogs outside for a nice walk. Then I came back, put the door in the car trunk, and brought it to the dump. All of twenty minutes later I came home to find the little dog had peed and pooped in the house. Luckily, I love that freaking little White Witch for whom I will NEVER dog sit again.