Pug Thug

If the federal government poured vats of dog pee on Al Qaeda, I think they could put an end to terrorism.  My rationale goes like this: it’s foul-smelling, requires Shout to get out (which I believe many terrorist cells do not carry around with them) and even when it dries, it leaves this crusty, crystallized creation that looks like meth but I know must be lethal because of its high sodium content.

I came to this conclusion after spending the night sorting through a 5′ wide and 6′ long pile of clothes that stacks up past Maggie’s head.  (I am not exaggerating either.  It is a terrible habit.  We do laundry and then dump everything on the floor of Nate’s man room in hopes of folding it all right away.  That never happens, of course.  So it sits and we just grab what we need each morning from this Downy-fresh, wrinkled mess.)  You may wonder why I sorted through clean clothes.  Let’s amend that statement — You may wonder why I sorted through clothes.  It’s 11p.m. on a Tuesday.  I lack any semblance of a social life and my living-in-sin boyfriend sleeps as soundly as Hoffa in our too small Queen size bed.  So that rules out me looking for the ultimate hoochie wear.  Nope, instead, I search for urine soaked sweats, socks and shirts.  Not my own urine.  Maggie’s.

Early this morning (I do mean early, the sun already started it’s Western Hemisphere work for the day, it’s around 5a.m.), I am still awake.  Yeah, insomnia!  Maggie on the other hand, does not want to be.  She makes this abundantly clear by whining outside the bedroom door, nudging me with her toys and then walking toward the bedroom or cuddling up in my lap, acting like she fell asleep and then waking up and glaring at me because she is not in her (ahem, our) more comfortable bed.  You probably think I am an idiot for not letting her in the bedroom.  But you cannot take two things away from nate — beer and sleep.  Nate let her out earlier in the night because she kept pouncing on him.  I did not want her to disturb him again.

So as I am working on stuff in the living room upstairs, she disappears.  Being fiercely loyal and co-dependent, this strikes me as odd when I realize she’s not around.  I call for her and several minutes latter she trots up the steps with a sheepishly deceitful look in her puppy dog eyes.

Fast forward to 2p.m.  I leave the house to run errands and smell the distinct odor of pee.  That’s when I discover my loving pugger, p*ssed off at me several hours earlier, did her doggy deed on our clean clothes.  I must admit, it is a relief much of what got hit with her yellow stream belonged to nate.  Thus begins my process of picking through the piles.

But she made her point (in pee), perfectly clear.  I wish people could be so easy to understand.  If somebody does something that upsets you, squat down and, well, you know.  That’s it.  It’s disgusting.  But you clean it up and it’s over.  If you believe in something so much you will soil a spotless floor, then people would see how committed you must be.  That kind of dedication cannot be argued.  Plus, there is no mind game about it.  Forgoing the toilet makes it obvious what is going on (unless you ate some really bad Mexican).  You don’t back stab, talk trash or spread rumors.  Maggie does not know English, or any other language, but I knew her beef.  We got past it though and tonight, she’s full of love, licks and kisses for me.

Now I need to work on getting a patent for her pee and seeing if somebody in the CIA or Homeland Security will buy it.


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