Last weekend I was in charge of taking out the dog. For the most part, whenever Chico started creep-staring with his monkey eyes, it was my duty to take him outside for a whiz. I’d gear up in the family dog-walking outfit — long coat, stupid hat, flashlight headband — and take the little muttdogger out. And boy, ain’t it a hassle in the assle!
For some reason, taking out dogs is the most difficult of all household chores. It’s different than dog walking — dog walking is voluntary and pleasant. When I feel like walking the dog, I’m happy to strap on a coal miner’s headlight and go for a stroll. When I’m on the couch in a bathrobe, yelling at Jenelle Evans that I seen her with Kieffah, and Chico starts scratching at my eyeballs, dog walking is neither voluntary nor pleasant.
Only people who watch Teen Mom 2 will appreciate this video.
I think, in part, it’s Chico’s fault. He’s real picky with his pooping, so a quick trip outside ends up being a 20-minute search for the perfect patch of snow. Plus, sometimes he fake limps, going as far as walking with only three legs. The vet’s checked him out and said he’s fine — he really just pretends to have a bum leg. Do you know how embarrassing that is? Especially if we run into other dogs? It’s like making fun of an amputee! He’s sick!
My past experiences are also partly to blame for my hatred of taking out dogs. Just one past experience, really.
It happened when I was 13.
I had just gotten home from a long day of the 8th grade. I was pretty stressed out from having to wear jeans all day, so I changed into some ripped boxer shorts, grabbed a snack, and turned on the TV. I was about halfway through a bowl of shredded mozzarella cheese and an episode of Jett Jackson when our then-family-dog, Halle, started a-whimpering. Girl needed to pee.
Even though it was the middle of winter, I threw on a gross old barn coat over my boxers, my favorite pair of backless slippers, and headed outside with Halle. It was below freezing, but I felt fine. So fine, in fact, that when Halle walked across the driveway, into the yard, and up onto the two feet of crusty snow, I followed along. It was like walking on water, except even cooler because it was fragile ice instead!
I walked about five steps before da inevitable happened: my right foot crashed through the ice and into the snow, cutting my bare leg on the way down. Not wanting to keep it there for long, I tried lifting it out. Unfortunately, while doing that, my other foot crashed through the ice, too.
In the confusion of having very cold, very hurty feet and legs, I dropped Halle’s leash. Apparently a dog leash is less heavy than a chubby 8th grader, because it slid across the ice and down the little hill in our front yard and (kind of) wrapped itself around a tree.
I guess slippers are less heavy than chubby 8th graders, too; the next two steps I took resulted in the loss of both slippers. I had no pants, no leash, and no shoes. All I had were some bloody feets and a steady stream of drive-by spectators. And some tears… had a a fair amount of tears, too.
BRB. Chico needs to whizzle.