Pooh Bear

Do you have a dog?  Does he eat his own shit? 

 

I’ve pretty much gotten over all the gross things that come with being a dog owner: hairy clothes, house, and car; dirt tracked in from outside; cleaning up messes in the back yard.  I think, though, that I would prefer to clean up more messes if it meant that Buster would stop eating his own freaking poop.  And then breathing poop breath right in my face, so I know he’s done it. 

 

This time of year, I can keep the back yard pretty clean, thwarting Buster’s disgusting tendencies.  It’s lighter later and not so cold and wet when I go to poop-scoop.  Charles is a big helper, too, yelling, “Mooooom!  There’s dog poop over here!”  It used to be a fun game for him, finding all the poop in the yard while I followed after with the trash bag.  Ahh, the ways we use our children, right?

 

Buster, despite the aforementioned occasional fecal-eating issue and shedding an ungodly amount, is a huge source of comfort for me during tax season.  There’s not an axe murderer in the world who would bother trying to kill us – he’d have to go through Buster, and he is one menacing dog.  I love taking him on a run because I know I won’t get jumped with his intimidating presence by my side, even if he does annoyingly stop to check his pee-mail every quarter-mile.  If you can’t have a husband in the house, one who is basically required by his full-grown Y chromosome to defend his woman and children, the next best thing is an asshole dog.

 

 

He’s not always an asshole.  Only to the bad guys.  To me, he’s a cuddle bear.  To the kids, he’s an awesome eating machine and a snot-licker.