Thursday, December 31, 2009

The Tiniest Shit Factory Alarm Clock

I have a dog. Harley.

We clarified last night that she is a Chi-Weinie. Half Chihuahua, half Weiner Dog.

She's my first "little" dog. And I think I terrify her. Not all that shocking really. I'm a super scary individual.

Shut up.

She's been with us for 6 months. And I swear to the little Baby Jesus, she's shit 3 tons of puppy excrement all over everything. It is like a hunt every day to find the little tootsie rolls of joy.

It reminds me of growing up on a farm, and my job was to find the eggs every morning. The chickens would hide them in little cubby places and it never failed that those cubbies were in the scariest areas. Like right under the house walls, where giant spiders lived. The ones that would eat me if my hand got withing 3 feet of them. Or deep in the hen house where the peckiest chickens lived. The mean chickens that sat at the back of the bus bullying all the 1st grader chicks. Bitch chickens with their black eyeliner, boyfriends and non-bowl cuts. Man, I hated those chickens.


Harley is a bona-fido shit factory. This is bad, in and of itself. Now add into the equation, her need to wake up and play at 6am everyday. That's right, people, this dog doesn't understand weekends. I need to make sure I get a "college-educated" dog next time. One that will bring me a beer when I ask. Or pull my ass out of a burning house. Or come when I call. A dog with a BS in Animal Coolness.

I think Harley is in doggy preschool, intelligence-wise. So, 6am swings around and she up! Ready to play, Play, PLAY! *groan*
I survived 2 kids trying to turn me into a morning person. I held on to edict that awakening before 8 was WRONG. Almost 11 years of valiant fighting for this basic timetable. And in 6 months, this little chicken-weiner, chi-weinie, whatever, has beaten me. I can no longer sleep in until 8. Hell, it is more like 7am. I could be out drinking myself into a stupor, pass out in my hotel room, and 7 am rolls around and I am awake. Not, open-my-eyes-see-the-time-and-roll-back-over-to-sleep awake, but AWAKE.

This is the definitive sign that I am getting old. Not the rampant gray hairs (although, none in the pubes, thank god!) or the creaks when I move. The tiniest of crow's feet.
The ability to get up at 7am is the sign of impending death by old age. Next thing? I'll start eating dinner at 3pm. And sit at the kitchen table playing solitaire until bedtime at 7pm.
All brought on by a tiny golden drama dog with ears the size of a small deer.

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