This is a story about him:
His name is Little Bastard (No, not really. That's MY pet name for him). And he sometimes wanders into my office when I leave the door open.
He belongs to a dude that owns a business in the same yard as mine and sometimes he escapes and comes looking for treats and adventures.
I used to love him.
I used to think he was so damn cute and funny.
Not so much anymore. But, more about that later.
Anyway, recently one of my friends told me a freaking hilarious story about him. You see. She works for his owner. So, she gets to see this doggy (that I used to love) all day long.
Now, let me warn you. If you are eating or drinking anything right now, put it down. You'll thank me later. I promise.
OK. So, this puppy that I used to love? He's a trash picker. And not a discerning trash picker, either.
Recently, he went into the ladies room at his owner's company and dug through the garbage. The next thing everybody heard was as bunch of grown men yelling and screaming and dry heaving and pleading for someone to HELP THEM!
Why, you ask?
Because evil little trash picking doggy was running around the warehouse with a used feminine product hanging out of his mouth! I know! Blechhhh...Right?
But the funniest thing ever, was that a bunch of grown men...tough guys, if you will...were running and screaming and freaking out about a little dog running around a big manly warehouse with a tampon string hanging out of his mouth!
Dudes, I know that's gross. But, c'mon! That is some funny shit!
Anywho, finally a woman came to the squealing men's rescue and wrestled said used feminine product from the doggy's mouth. I think she needs a promotion! And you?
So, when I heard this story? I loved this doggy even more. I just thought he was so freakin adorable and hilarious.
Then, one day he came to visit me and my feelings for Little Bastard changed.
You see. I am nice to him. I always have treats for him. I always pet him. I always play with him.
And the last time he was here, how did he repay me for my kindness?
HE WALTZED IN. CAME OVER TO MY DESK. SAT ON MY FEET.
THE LITTLE F**KER PISSED ON MY RUNNING SHOES.
And not like a little tinkle, either! Like a big, giant river of doggy urine all over my running shoes!
Now, I don't know how much you know about me. But, I am a neatnik. I don't have pets because I am ascared of anything that has the potential to poop, pee, puke, or shed on my hardwoods. I guess you could say that I am a tad bit OCD-ish.
So, when the dog released his bodily fluids on my most favorite running shoes? Dudes! I freaked out! I was all these shoes must be incinerated...ASAP!!!
So, anyway, now I am having an anxiety attack and the Hubby walks over and I tell him what happened and he wags his finger at Sir Pees A Lot and escorts his urine soaked little ass out of my building.
I whipped off my shoes and THANK YOU JESUS my socks were dry.
Good thing or I was going to have to take some 60 grit sandpaper to my toes. Seriously.
Luckily, I had a spare pair of sneakers in my trunk so the Hubby went and got them for me. I put them on and said, "Throw those sneakers away! They're tainted!"
But, the Hubby said he would wash them THREE times because I said that ONE time would NEVER be enough to make me comfortable enough to wear them again. GROSS, GROSS, and GROSS.
And he did:
Some women unrealistically dream that their Prince Charming will come along and rescue them.
I'm just happy when mine washes dog pee from my favorite shoes.