I hauled my butt out of bed earlier than usual this morning and took Red Dog on a walk. It was the last walk that she will be taking for awhile with a full coat o' hair, for later I delivered her to the vet tech up the road, the one that also babysits the Things, with the instructions of, "Please shave her hide".
"It won't look good. I'm not a groomer.", she said.
I replied, "Anything will look better than this junk yard dog/dread lock/no one loves me thing she has going on. Plus it's hot and she'll feel better."
Then I added with a tight smile, "Feel free to sedate her."
Because what I didn't tell the vet tech/babysitter is that Red Dog is a Freakazoid Drama Queen when you try to do anything to her that doesn't include throwing a ball or a stick. Seriously, you have to have stealth ninja skills to even pet her because her tongue is on rapid fire and she will get you. Don't even think about brushing the little hussy, because she cries, moans and yelps like you have hung her up by her toenails and are extracting her teeth, or worse yet, giving her ball to another little bitch. Plus, I have to hold her head away from me because with all the commotion, I almost expect to be bitten. I combed a grocery sack full of hair out of her the other day and it sounded like I was weaning piglets in my yard. I know that sometimes she behaves better for people who aren't her "mother", so I tried to get Brock to brush her and he went at her matted hair for about... oh.... a minute and he declared it to be "too much work" and went back to reading the paper. Thanks honey.
|"I may bite off your face if you come at me with that brush again.|
My friend found this saying "Handle Your Shit!" She loves it. I am more inclined to be drawn to sayings like "I'm not ready." or "Oh honey, what were you thinking? Bless your heart." or just a good old fashioned "Back Off". So, like a responsible adult, I'm paying someone to "handle the shit" that I no longer desire to handle. Come to think of it, there is a lot of shit that I just don't want to handle. A shit ton of shit, if you will. I wish that I could have paid someone to "handle the shit" earlier today when Thing 2 was hitting Thing 1 in the head with a stick, which caused him to flip over backwards in his chair, which was naturally in the wading pool, thus crushing the side of the pool. Or later, after Thing 2 smeared mud all over his face like warpaint and Thing 1 decided to "help" clean off little brother's face and attempted to hold Thing 2's head under water until it was clean. Yes. Too bad I couldn't pay someone to handle that shit.
|Just look at the sheer joy that whacking his brother with a stick is bringing him.|
And yes, I am taking a photograph instead of parenting. Someone call the POlice.
|I call this "Warpaint".|
He had this dazed expression pre-head-under-water.
I'm thinking that he needs MORE oxygen, not less.
I would also like to pay someone to go to the dentist for me tomorrow. Because the thought of it makes me want to curl up in the fetal position and rock myself to sleep in a corner somewhere. Even in a barn filled with newly weaned piglets.
Out of motivation from this post from fellow blogger and mother, Get Real Mama, I want you to know that I shared the majority of this fascinating information with my facebook friends today, because, if nothing else, I like to keep it real. What you all did not see was a picture of me because sometimes "real" is just "too real" and I want people to maintain as much of an appetite as they can in this 100 degree heat.
Thanks for stopping by. There is a chance that I will show you a post shaved Red Dog, as long as she isn't too embarrassed. I'm sure that she will be simulataneously relieved and ashamed, as she is an Australian Shepherd and apparently those dogs have a hefty dose of Catholic guilt bred into them. Anyone with an Aussie knows exactly what I am talking about.
|Tell her that she looks pretty. |
Peace, Love and OMG! STOP HITTING/DROWNING YOUR BROTHER!