In the doghouse

Figuratively speaking, my dog, Bentley, was in the doghouse last week - for about a day and a half. For those of you who aren't in the know, a bit of background on Bentley - or "B", "B-Dubs" as I sometimes call him:

Bentley is a lanky ten year old hound mix. He's been my dog for the last 4 years. As far as B is concerned, 10 is the new 3 in dog years. He's 95% good dog, he really is, but he knows that he's allowed the 5% not-so-good and he uses it like personal/sick days on a union job. He's a bit too smart for his own good...and my liking.

For those of you who run with the theory that a dog doesn't remember what he does from one minute to the next, bite me. I swear to you, good people, this dog has a memory - albeit a very selective one at times. He knows my routines, keeps a schedule for his routines - I'm pretty sure the dog has a day planner on him somewhere, and there are times when I'd swear he owns a watch. I digress.

When he uses his 5% bad points, it annoys the living B-Jeezus outta me - and sometimes it just flat out pisses me off - big time. It's as if he's saying the following:

B: Dude, c'mon - I flippin' NEVER pee or poop in the house & you're calling me out for letting this guy who slow-walks by my living room window every single day know that he best watch his ass? He knows it bugs me - you think I don't get tired of barking at him several times a day because he just won't listen?? Really? Besides, I'm allowed 5% in the good dog/bad dog ratio. You want I should use it to drop a deuce by the coffee table? How about a decent sized puddle in the exact spot you land your feet when you wake up - which is almost always later than it should be if you ask me...I mean, I can do that, if you think you've got, say, two entire rolls of paper towels to spare, along with 20 minutes or so and a shit ton of Febreeze, Lysol, or whatever the hell you're gonna freak and wanna use to get rid of the smell...seriously. 5% on my giving that inconsiderate, slow walking dude some good advice, ain't a bad deal.

There are times when I call him out on his 5%, and he just gives me a look that says, get real. He's basically right - but that is not a hand I can show, because the F'kr has a memory and he will use it against me...in my own house, on his own leash, wherever/whenever he sees fit. So I'll admit that most of the time, his allowed 5% isn't so bad in the big picture. But there are times when he uses smart dog logic and saves up his bad points for something really worth saving for and dumps 'em on me. Last Tuesday, things were good - right up to the time he decided to cash in some bad dog points, big time:

A normal day as I place some plastic bottles of various flavored syrups I made for work on the counter. At the front of these, I place a quart container full of minted simple syrup - a different recipe, supposedly resulting in more mint flavor. I place all this on the counter because I know that when I come home from the gym, I'll have exactly enough time to change for work, grab the syrups and head back out the door. My bad.

I came home from the gym knowing I had exactly enough time to change and leave for work. Bentley made me wish I had another six hours before I had to leave, having knocked the quart container of minted syrup off the counter and onto the kitchen floor. Onto the front of the cabinets. They say water will find a natural path anywhere. So will syrup when it falls from counter height to the floor. There is no physical way to measure what percentage of a quart of sticky syrup will obey the laws of gravity. It will appear as though most of it would obey such laws, but it will amaze you (and not in a good way) just how much of it will defy laws of gravity and head upwards instead. Cabinets doors and drawers - ones above sink level, where you keep glasses, plates an' shit. On the far side of the kitchen floor, onto the back of the bookcase that divides the living room from the kitchen. Everywhere. Defying laws of volume and mass, quantity - like the loaves and the fishes. Oh there's plenty.

Thank God the syrup left some clean space by the entrance to the kitchen - where else would a dog have to do some paw painting? In dog logic, it's gotta be better to walk around in this stuff, head into the living room and see if any of it made it onto the carpet. Whew. Thank goodness - it did. To a dog, this stuff tastes pretty good - but you can't lick all of it up. Let it stay there - it's not like you can't benefit from a bit of traction on a linoleum floor that is wicked slick for four paws and nails that are a bitch - some pun intended, to keep trimmed.

Everywhere. That's where this syrup ended up. None. That's how many spare minutes I had to deal with this mess. It's not the end of the world, this I know. I'm not going to beat a dog - I know this too. I gotta be honest here and say that when I discovered this mess, I want my dog to think that it is indeed the end of the world - and that I will beat him. Like I said, the dog has a watch - I dunno where he keeps it, but he's got one. He knows I don't have time to end any world right now, including his. He knows I don't have time to beat him. He knows I don't have time to clean up any of what is on my kitchen floor, and that ain't gonna stop a hound tail from wagging. I may have said that I don't have time for any of this - but I don't remember what came out of my mouth in the string of sentences made entirely out of swear words that I let fly when I walked into that kitchen - and believe me, I let that shit fly like I'd eaten lunch at a truckstop for a year straight. God. DAMMIT. SHIT...all the hits, in all their glory. AIN'T. Nobody. Got. Time. For. That. F-bombs away folks, shit/fuck-fuckitty-shit-fuck-all-to-hell....

For the scant few minutes I now had to budget into my time in haste, I became a total moron. Like I'm going to tell you just how I set about trying to do a half-ass job of cleaning up the mess and getting out the door to work on time - please! Even in the running around frantically employing methods that were, quite frankly, retarded, I knew better. Shit. Fuck. Damn. Sorry, I'm in a hurry. I'm pissed, and so pressed for time. My dog knows this - and he's all, "Really? My ass is grass now? Shouldn't you be changing for work? I mean, let's face it - you can't be late to work, yet you're running around frantically trying to use a bath towel to spread whatever that stuff is around on the floor, yelling at me, bitching about the measly few million ants that are gonna show up? Dude, do us both a favor and get your ass to work!"

No, it wasn't the end of the world, and I didn't beat my dog - nor did I want to, but something has got to make him think twice here. Never mind that something should have made me think once! Oddly enough, not a single ant showed up for the feast of syrup. They must have had some other function to go to. Lucky me. I have mopped my kitchen floor eleven times since last Tuesday evening when I got home at 12 AM. I will mop it again, probably half a dozen times tomorrow on my day off. It wasn't until Thursday, that I began the healing process of forgiving my dog. Even then, as he nosed up to the counter while I was plating my breakfast, I told him he didn't want to go there - and he knew. All is forgiven, if not forgotten - and as I type this, Bentley is back to using his 5%. He knows that for all my pomp-and-circumstance of touting myself as Lord and Master of my domain, at the end of the day, it is Lord and Master (please), who picks up his poop. Winner, winner, dog dish dinner.