Tag Archives: dogs

Notes to Self

Kevin Costner playing at the Cisco Ottawa Blue...

Image via Wikipedia

  1. Stop buying Sports Select tickets. You haven’t won since 2008. And frankly, you’re starting to sound like Christian Bale in The Fighter when you rant about how close you came to winning last week to the person behind you in the Shopper’s Drug Mart line.
  2. Dinners consisting of $12 wine and cheese buns from the Co-op bakery eaten on the toilet are exactly why your mother thinks you’re unable to live alone
  3. Eating Tim Bits in the stairwell while singing the Ghostbuster‘s theme song isn’t helping either. Get back to work. Continue reading

I’m Cursed

Do you believe in curses? I don’t mean the Drag Me to Hell variety but rather a man always on the wrong side of every – and I mean every – equation. We all have that friend with the hunched shoulders as if he is cowering from a metaphysical flogging, Droopy Dog sullen and always quick with the latest rape and murder statistics. He’s usually single and sexless, in constant need of rides because his car caught fire on Deerfoot, or a spare futon because the Terror Dogs from Ghostbusters ripped through his couch.

Dammit Zuul! I got that couch from Ikea

Is it possible for a man to see every anticipated disaster come to fruition no matter what he does to avoid it? Is he a bum; an unprepared, disorganized simpleton who doesn’t have the foresight or life skills to avoid these catastrophes?

For my sake, I hope I’m cursed. I’ve had my car stolen, everything I’ve loved and cherished chewed through by a dog  possessed by Pazuzu, a broken hand, two torn tendons, a nose ring torn by a drunken ex-girlfriend, chased by the police for being so uppity as to walk my dog after midnight and to top it all off, I lost my passport last night, a mere two days before I was to go to Europe.

As I’ve become aware of my repeated misfortune, I made certain – on every single trip – to set the passport on top of my luggage before I head to the airport. No matter. It still vanished. The most depressing part of the ordeal is, I didn’t even panic when I realized it was gone. I expected this to happen. I saw the space the passport should have occupied and sunk to the ground a defeated man. In my life, I have only been so soundly broken on two occasions.

1) When KFC had forgotten to include the large Popcorn Chicken in my Mega Meal, and I was already home before I noticed; and

2) The first time my dog beat me in a race. As I lay gasping for air on a beaten path by the Bow River, I shit you not he launched into a leaping, yelping two-footed victory dance around my body while I clung to life. We’ll see who has the last laugh when chase another squirrel across 17th Avenue, you little shit.

I found the passport eventually. It was in Mason’s kennel. I will never know how it got there but I can say this: as I crawled on all fours, into a den of bone fragments, saliva, dried peanut butter and hardened flecks of feces, the dog padded into the living room after me. Then, as we locked eyes, I swear I heard him laugh.

You mad?

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.

 

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