I have a dog, or should I say, I accepted that a dog invade my house to shut the Frost-ing kids up make the kids happy and stop my girlfriend's whining return the favor to my girlfriend who had rid herself of her dog when we first moved in together (the only apartment I had found didn't accept dogs). Thing is, I am not a dog person... Being stuck with a creature that requires the equivalent amount of care and supervision as 3 year-old for the duration of its life isn't my idea of pleasurable animal companionship. But that's just me.
Anyways, the mutt's name is Whisky, as chosen by my girlfriend and the kids, apparently to make him appear more palatable to me since I'm a whisky aficionado. Upon knowledge of this, I kindly remarked that I had absolutely no intention of ingesting any form of liquid produced by this... this... canine. He's a cross between a Beagle and a Boston terrier, and I'm quite sure there must be some form of rodent genes somewhere in there.
Like this, but filled with drool and Shakespeare
We've had the thing since January 2009 and up to now, I find that Destructo, Armageddon or Sir Chewalot would've been more appropriate, though I'll admit he's had me drink more than my usual share of his namesake. The little Froster's managed to annihilate two of my girlfriend's bras, one of the kids' pair of sandals, the doormat, his goddamn plastic feeding bowl (the replacement is metal, and I truly hope he tries his luck at it), a myriad of pens and pencils, and various denominations of pocket change... Not to mention trying multiple times to either eat, disembowel and/or hump the cat.
Our warm welcoming words to the world. We were the proud owners of the likes of the top model
You've guessed by now that Whisky and I are not the best of buddies, though this is pretty much one-sided, as he unfortunately doesn't understand jack Shakespeare of the colorful insults I throw at him. I know this for a fact, for no self respecting individual would accept being called a rotting turd sub-product and then proceed to lick your face all over.
So this evening was my evening to get him out for his walk. I was getting ready with overflowing faked enthusiasm while Whisky's tail was wagging him into a frenzy. I briefly considered strangling him with hooked his leash to his collar and out the door we went. As I was fumbling with the door to close it behind me, a little voice in the back of my head was trying to enlighten me on the possible source of the stench that seemed to permeate the air. That's when I heard the two distinct growls: one of them I recognized as Whisky's, the other one my mind attributed to various possible hell spawn critters. I slowly turned in the direction of the growls, and my heart sank while my stomach heaved: a skunk... Somewhere like a foot and a half from my imbecile of a dog, whose tail was furiously beating the air in anticipation.
Artist depiction: real subject is nowhere as friendly or handsome as this
As I was quickly casting panicked glances around me to try and figure out an escape route, I promptly forgot that I actually had a dog on a leash with me. Whisky, sensing an opportunity, made his move towards the skunk. With Pepe hissing and growling and starting to rotate to aim his biotoxic spray, he casually trotted up to it, lifted his leg and copiously hosed it... I guess the skunk was too flabbergasted at being pissed on instead of the other way around to retaliate, but it just scooted away, hissing and growling, and I'm almost certain I also heard it cussing.
I stared at Whisky with newfound admiration, went back inside to fetch a dog treat for him, and off we went for his walk. We still don't get along that well, but this was definitely a bonding moment, and I definitely would've French-kissed him on the spot, had he been of the female gender and of the human species.
Me french-kissing my dog
Attaboy Whisky!!
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