The Geriatric Poodle can’t be bothered with the snow and ice. He is doing me a gigantic favor each time he goes outside – every time, I get the “I’m just doing this for you, bitch” look. And then he takes two steps out the door and takes a dump on the deck.
I’m expecting a call from Better Homes & Gardens any day now.
A few minutes ago, I let him and the Foxie Doxie outside for their evening constitutional. Geriatric Poodle took his customary two steps, made some yellow snow, and then turned back to the storm door, demanding to be granted entree immediately.
Except that he was at the wrong side of the outward-swinging door. So every time I opened the door, he still faced glass and wondered why the hell he couldn’t get inside.
At first, I felt bad. But about the third time I stepped outside to “help” him and was met with an icicle melting down the back of my neck, well, I started to laugh. Yes, I’m cruel and I laugh at the elderly.
But then he really didn’t get it. And I felt horrible. He’s really not that old – maybe about 9 years old. But he was abused and then dumped and has had a variety of veterinary adventures that have put my vet’s two kids through college. Free dog, my ass.
After our latest veterinary emergency – which included him collapsing in the vet’s waiting room, an emergency splenectomy and me driving across town with a comatose poodle and a bag of donor blood in my lap – well, I know that we’re on borrowed time. So I shouldn’t laugh when he runs into the coffee table or gets confused and then pissed by the storm door.
Except I think I laugh so I won’t cry.