I Still Love the Dog Despite …

So I may be cheating a bit in that this post isn’t about my kid. But you guys, I really need to vent. Story’s dog – term used loosely – is going to give me an aneurysm. The Little Shit, as she is not at all affectionately called when Story is gone, or Kahlea, as she is called when Story is home, is so vexing her cuteness cannot make up for it. Let me give you a few examples.

If you know me, you know I love sleep, like I would marry it if I could. I also love to luxuriate in the early morning, finding the cool spots and stretching as I wake myself up slowly. That perfect part of my life has been ever so rudely interrupted. Little Shit burrows down in the covers, more often than not curling up in the crook of my legs. Not once but twice she has thrown up while down there, and yes, my feet got in it. This of course caused a middle-of-the-night scramble to tear off the sheets before it soaked through into my mattress. As you can imagine, I did not sleep well those nights. And the luxuriating is gone. Just gone. As soon as Little Shit wakes up, it’s a mad dash to get her outside before she pees everywhere.

This past week, I walked around town with a tampon wrapper sticking out of my boot. I was really confused – until I got home. I looked under the bed where the boots had been and found Little Shit’s stash of bathroom trash.




I’ve been stressed because of an upcoming deadline and almost lost my mind because my computer took on a life not of my making. I was in the groove, writing away, when suddenly text was highlighted, other documents opened, and words scrolled up my screen. I was helpless to stop it. I panicked as I took my hands off the keyboard and watched the insanity on my screen. I took a deep breath to continue my yelling and heard it. The little scroll button on my mouse. I followed the sound to the other side of the couch, and sure enough, Little Shit was playing with the mouse.

Little Shit chewed a hole in my comforter. Several times since, she has crawled inside it, found her way to a corner, and gotten stuck. A ball in the corner of the comforter, crying and flipping this way and that and eventually off the bed. It is mission impossible to get her out of it every single time.

It even irritates me when she falls asleep with her foot in her ear. 

I spent days putting together a robot dinosaur for Story. I mean, at least twenty hours. The Little Shit stole the rod that connected the tail, the very last step. The dinosaur cannot stand without its tail. The poor thing has been lying on the floor ever since. Obviously I haven’t located one of her stashes.

She steals the blankets. She licks my toes. Actually she licks anything she can reach incessantly. She gets in the trash, bathroom and kitchen. She hides my shoes. She hides the remote. She chews on anything I’ve touched, including pliers. She pooped on my new floor. She chews up Story’s underwear and socks. She looks straight at me and refuses to come when I call. Runs off and is impossible to catch.

And on top of all this are the constant potty messes. It feels like I spend half my day outside begging her to go while she leads me all over the yard. It never fails; as soon as we get back in the house, she goes. I’m sorry, but I will never get used to the sight of pee pads in the house.

But then Story loves her. I mean really, really, I-would-never-get-away-with-an-accidental-death loves her. She worries that Little Shit won’t be here when she gets home (and rightly so). She panics like no seven-year-old should ever panic when anyone opens a door in this house. She talks to her on the phone when she’s away. They cuddle each other, and it’s downright precious.

I hate that dog and sometimes fantasize about her death, but I love her for who she is to Story.