Skrip - tyur' - i - ent: adj. Possessing the violent desire to write.


#030 In which our hero updates the dog plan.

Quick dog update: as you no doubt remember (since you hang on every word I write like it's Faulkner's newest masterpiece) we have been confining the dog to his kennel during the day, in hopes that he won't piss-up the house. Surprisingly, this has mostly been successful. He still manages to unload a bladderful of pee while we're at work, but it's mostly soaked up by the comforter lining the cage. Of course, this means that we have to throw it in the wash every day (and I mean AS SOON as we get home, because it stinks THAT BAD) but it's certainly more convenient than trying to get the stench out of the carpeting.

However, we ran into a problem. The dog has decided to eat his cage. I saw that he had worried the bars a bit for the first couple of days, but nothing that big. Then, after about five days he went into overdrive and bent the shit out of them.

"Surveying the damage"

Worse yet, he started to tear up his nose and really wear down the enamel on his teeth. Dumbass.

So, once again I've abandoned the plan and moved on the Plan -- what? K? L? I've forgotten.

So now I drive home every day at lunch and let him out. Pretty simple, actually. Except it's a 20 minute drive one way, so that's a pain in the ass. But he can hold his pee until I get there, and hold the rest until I get home from work. Why doesn't my wife, who works only five minutes away from the house do it? Well, apparently she's "too busy" at her job helping "infertile couples" to "create life." Whatever.

Starting on Friday I'm cutting back his drugs (actually on doctor's orders this time) and hoping that the reduced dosage will allow him to hold his water All. Day. Long.

I used to dream of climbing a mountain, winning a Nobel Prize, or curing cancer. Now I dream of coming home and not stepping in a puddle of dog piss.

Amazing how your dreams can change.


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