ABCs of Mason



Annoyance: There is no single thing more vexing than a needy, vaguely homosexual dog, trained by a functioning (lazy and possibly depressed) alcoholic. Ok maybe having an ex who is seemingly always on her rag during the four days a month we’re not at each other’s throats (ahem) can be more annoying. Or Asian drivers. But you get my point.


An uninterrupted night of sleep is a thing of the past. From the moment the little shit paws me awake at 3 a.m. due to the anxiety inherent in not being constantly pet. Most troubling, he has now elected to wake me up not by paw but by loudly and wetly licking his crotch. Imagine this if you will, keeping in mind I go to bed drunk six days a week, an animal who licks his crotch so loudly he can snatch the most deep of sleepers from what can only be accurately described as a Merlot coma.



Asshole: Each time I present the mutt with a new bone or chew toy or pig’s hoof, he immediately snatches it from my hand and sprints to the safety of the underside my desk. In his canine brain he believes that I’m such an asshole that I’ll walk out of my way to get the bone, haggle over change with the Armenian cashier, carry it home in a hand usually reserved for groping women on the C-Train, unwrap it and present it to him, only to snatch it back from his jaws and launch it into traffic, laughing maniacally as he whimpers.


Baby: Due to a combination of taking him too soon from his mother and allowing him to stay attached to me during puppyhood so his yelps would not alert the apartment’s landlord that I was hiding a dog, Mason can go no longer than 30 seconds alone without crying. As if my masculinity could withstand another blow, I can no longer even mutter sexual improprieties under my breath to the big booty Subway girl without a full grown 70 pound lab/pit mix crying outside the door.




Clothes: The dog’s slumber choices are as follows: he can sleep on (a) one of two dog beds (a luxury 90% of the humans on the planet can’t afford) or (b) a pile semen-encrusted boxer shorts flung careless to the floor. Can you guess which one he chooses?


Dumb: Since November, Mason has eaten a block of firewood, a wheel belonging to a desk chair and a bag of de-icer salt. Needless to say, he has, each time, voided his stomach onto the floor and promptly left the room for a more  whereby to lick his nuts that did not smell of stomach bile and semi-digested wood chips.


Karma: One particular night, when the weather dipped to ball-shrinking temperatures and a hastily consumed Panormous pizza had lulled me into a diabetic coma, I decided to feed my dog chicken nuggets, instead of walking three blocks to Co-op and buying dog food. In retrospect, this was a bad idea though I must say in my defense that an episode of Jersey Shore loomed on the horizon and the Craigslist escorts were not going to proposition themselves. Predictably, the little fucker threw the nuggets back up five times in three different rooms, including the rug in my office. A tan stain the shape of Gorbachov’s birthmark remains. Serves me right.


Pride: I have been too proud to take the dog to obedience class for the simple fact that my mother told me I couldn’t train him on my own. He now jumps on strangers, runs away when presented with the smallest crack in the fence and routinely breaks his collar on walks because he pulls on the leash with such force. It is only a matter of time until he is on the Parks and Recreation Most Wanted List or rabid from eating yet another dead bird carcass.


Self-respect: Long ago vanished into the ether. From the first moment I  picked up mounds of shit, liquefied after a month-long submersion beneath snow, I knew I could never look at myself in the mirror again.




Trash: The upscale dining of the canine world. Like a black stage hand on a Jenny Craig commercial shoot, a dog cannot be left unattended with garbage present.


Wuss: Despite all the annoyance and odorous cleanups in the backyard. Although he will probably end up biting a child or face-raping a prized Pomeranian, I still love the fool and not a day goes by that I’m not happy I bought him from a meth addict in an odorous Killarney apartment.


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