Sunday 25 May 2014

Earn His Keep

Every time that I go in to make the bed, Buster comes running in and jumps up on the bed. For some reason, he thinks that my going into the bedroom is a signal for a human-dog wrestling match. I really have no idea where he gets that idea from, because I have never gone into the bedroom to fight with the dog.

If I want to fight with the dog, I will do it outside where both of us can fight as dirty as possible. He has me beat when it comes to speed, but I have opposable thumbs and a large brain which in combination lets me outsmart him nine times out of ten. Well, maybe six times out of ten or at worst, 50-50, but better than half the time I can trick him. He’s a sucker for the invisible ball toss trick and I can always get him with “WHAT’S THAT????” Sure, he can run circles around me (literally) and his patented “muddy paws” will pretty much always end the fight.

I can always win by pulling out one of his treats. He stops whatever trick he was about to pull and comes to sit quietly at my feet. I’m no different than most dog owners; I like to humiliate him by forcing him to do stupid tricks to “earn” the treat. He gets back at me by forcing me to pick up his shit at the busiest intersection in the neighbourhood, so I guess we are even. No, not nearly are we even! Private humiliation is no where near as humiliating as public humiliation. Fucking dog!

Buster is about eight years old. I say about because we got him from the Animal Shelter and they can only guesstimate his age. His mother was/is a loose bitch that dropped him and forgot about him as soon as she could. I kind of feel sorry for him, but shit happens and you have to get over it.

He has been living with us for at least six of those years and in all that time he hasn’t learned to speak English. That’s the only language we speak in the house, so he should have picked up a rudimentary understanding in all of that time. Nothin! You would think he’d have learned a kind of pigeon English, but that would have been no help because I don’t speak pigeon. Like most English speaking people, when confronted with someone that doesn’t speak my language, I repeat what I said slower and louder again and again and again, in the hopes that they will be able to dredge English out of some deep recess of their brains.

I have mentioned before that Buster contributes almost nothing to the house. Sure he is cute and cuddly, but cute and cuddly doesn’t buy kibble and treats. I have been trying to teach him how to do housework, but he doesn’t understand my desire to make the bed. He likes his blankets all bunched up and uneven and if possible, mixed up with a chew toy or two. He has yet to wipe his muddy feet even once since he moved in and I have made it abundantly clear how I feel about it. He leaves bits and pieces of hair on the furniture and floors, not to mention any clothes that happen to be dark in colour.

I have to admit that he is very good at cleaning the dishes. I just leave them on the floor and leave. By the time I get back, he has washed them in the sink, dried them and put them right back on the floor for me to put away in the cupboard. That’s why I still have hope, if I can teach him to do the dishes; I am convinced that he can learn all of the other jobs that I have for him. He might just start to earn his keep sooner than later.

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