Doggie Deathwatch

Let’s be honest. The only reason I’m not on medication right now is my personal standards for normal behavior are abysmally low. I sometimes yell at my husband. I often threaten to sell a cranky child to the next band of passing gypsies. And I may sometimes have a glass (or two) of wine with (instead of) dinner. In general, I can look at all the aforementioned behaviors, shrug and say, “I’ll do better tomorrow.” But events have taken a troublesome turn lately. I’ve started a death watch on my dog, Gus.

I bet you’re thinking, “No big deal. All pets have to go sometime.” And I agree. If Gus were 20 years old with bad hips it would be one thing. But he’s a perfectly healthy 7-year-old with no health concerns whatsoever. And yet I catch myself staring at him...trying to assess the earliest possible moment that he might kick the bucket. Without any assistance from me of course.

I should clarify...I don’t actually want to KILL my dog. If murder were on my mind, I would hustle off to the nearest pharmacy ASAP. I think I’m just anxious to stop picking dog hair off the babies’ clothes, bottles, pacifiers and mouths. Also, he has a tendency to roll in smelly, dead things. And there are occasional poop issues. Not that he isn’t house trained, but to put it delicately, I haven’t been able to make him understand that grass -- not the living room rug -- is meant to be used as doggie toilet paper.

What really disturbs me about my ghoulish pastime is that Gus is my little baby doggie. From six weeks on, he has rarely left my side. In our childless years, he made my arms less empty and was happy to be on the receiving end of all the love and affection I could lavish on my fuzzy pseudo-child. Then the unthinkable happened...I had REAL children. And I’m not ashamed to tell you -- although I SWORE it wouldn’t happen -- I love them more. And poor Gus gets the short end of the stick, the fuzzy end of the lolly pop, the broken bits of biter biscuit -- o.k. he gets pretty excited over that last part, but you get the point. I’ve gone from Doggie Mama to Grim Reaper in the blink of an eye.

I figure he’s got at least 10 years on him, by the way. Plenty of time for all four boys to get really attached before the inevitable happens. Maybe it’s not the hair or the smell or all the extra work. I wonder if it’s simply the dread of helping four small boys deal with the death of something they love. Maybe I’m simply hoping he’ll go sooner to make his passing less painful on their little hearts.

Nope. It’s definitely the hair. Seven years down...10 more to go. I wonder if it would be easier to just vacuum the dog instead of the floor? Seriously, I told you I needed medication!!!