Shit Head

Since my ma's been in the hospital, I've inherited a dog.

Sorry, let me rephrase that. I've inherited the Prince of Why-the-fuck-are-you-not-petting-me, also known as the Emperor of Look-I-have-the-saddest-eyes-EVER. 

This dog. I'd add a photo if I could f*cking figure out how to do it on this iPad. Picture the size of an seven month old lab -- actually, make that a four  month old lab, with the eyes of the Puss in Boots character from Shrek and the multiple personalities of Jekyl and Hyde. 

Confused? Let me explain. 

This little black dog is a cuddlier.  He LOVES to cuddle. He's like a cat in that sense. He also dances like a monkey on his hind legs when I get home. He's on my lap, has his head on my shoulder when I drive and is leaning against me when I am on the couch, often looking at me with the saddest face, the little whites of his eyes looking at me like he's just lost his best friend.  Which he has when you think about it, twice over. 

Roxy passed in December, his comrade, his partner in crime. They spent every day together for as long as he's been with us, more than five years. She taught him how to bark (much to my Momma's chagrin), and to this day when he does manage his weird little bark I always think of my sweet gal.

Then my ma ends up in hospital. For more than two months she's been there. So he's lost his momma, too. Now, instead of me going to work and him having Roxy and momma, he's alone. All by himself. He doesn't wanna be all by himself. Anymore.  (Cue Celine Dionne and crescendo)

The other side of him is a shit head. The side of him that decides no other animals can enter the house because he has a big penis and is Master of the Universe (btw, his penis isn't that big.  I mean, I can't speak with any confidence...he had HUGE balls when we got him, but the penis? I've seen better). The one that turns him into the Tasmanian Devil when we see another dog on a walk. He. Goes. Beserk. We once hired the Dog Father, a local trainer, to come and help us manage him with other dogs. The Dog Father took one look at me and told me:

"You. You are the problem."

Excellent!

The funny thing is that the dog walker comes every day, throws him into the back of her car with six other dogs, and he's totally fine. Wait...maybe that's not funny. Maybe that's evidence that I really AM the problem. 

Well shit.