The Suburban Jungle

Okay, so this is one of those things that makes me go hmmm?  It also makes me seek first aid.

Dear  Inconsiderate Woman Who Woos my Dog,

I need to express a grievance, but I’m having trouble putting it into words, mainly because we don’t speak the same language. Could you please refrain from making kissy noises when I am riding my bike with my dog in tow.   The last couple times I have taken my dog for a bike ride you have been in the garage next door, cleaning.  Though I have not assessed their garage, I don’t recall it being so dirty, but I digress.

You seem to find my dog attractive, and have a habit of calling him in a lip smacking “come ‘ere boy” kind of chant.  Has it not dawned on you that I am on my bike and attached to my dog by a leash when you trying to woo him to you? (more…)

This morning I woke up to a gift, the kind of gift that makes pet owners want to just  hug their pets super tight and not let go until they pass out…I mean gently fall asleep . No, it was not a poop or a pee. There was a pee, but that’s like walking out to find my children playing Wii, no big surprise. No, this was a doozy. I was asleep, as I often am on Saturday mornings, while my daughter was watching Strawberry Shortcake. I woke, only to find dark stains, smudges, and ink blots all over my pricey white coverlet, William Sonoma duvet, and white sheets. Sheets that are a gazilion thread count, by the way. Only me and Paris sleep on sheets of such extrordinary comfort.

The dark blotches looked as if my dog had found an indelible marker, packaged some TNT around it, and then plunged down on the detonator . There were spots on the sheets where he bit through with such fervor, and the ink was distributed so evenly, it looked like a professional job. Like any good detective, I screamed at the suspect and let him out in the yard, mainly for his own safety. Then I searched for clues. There was no pen, no evidence. I had a new book on the bed and I was certain the black cover was defective and the ink was smearing off, but I rarely rub books so feverishly over my bedding. My dog would also need opposable thumbs for such a task.

Then I found it. On some of the ink splotches, there was a greasy chunky residue. I picked up a chunk and mushed it between my fingers, like a melted crayon. Wait, there’s a splinter of wood in that chunk on the pillow. This is not a crayon. This was my new retro navy blue metallic eyeliner. There was no evidence because the rest of said pencil was Tanner’s breakfast. I am a realistic person who is rarely paranoid, and I am quite sure this was premeditated. This is how I think it went down: I wore the eyeliner yesterday in an 80’s tribute to the late Michael Jackson, an occurrence I was freaking out over. He was the only suspected child molester that I truly enjoyed and forgave, because of his insanely awesome talent. Talent and wealth make up for a lot of misgivings in America, even sharing your bed with Emmanuel Lewis.

Back on track, my dog is vehemently anti anything retro. I have heard him say on more than one occasion, “I don’t want this crappy rubber burger or fake New York Times newspaper. Go get me some Nylabone made from space-age webbed plastic cells, or some Kong industrial NASA rubber, and a chicken pot pie…bitch!” Of course, when a dog calls you “bitch,” it’s a compliment.

His distaste for celebrating decades of yore, and his taste for greasy pencils made from toxins and whale blubber, made this a crime worth committing. He must have grabbed his Nylabone, which he routinely shreds, and brought it onto the bed. This allowed me to sleep longer knowing I could pick up the 1000 pieces later. The chewing cooed me to sleep like a lullaby.

When he was sure I was out, he whined until my daughter followed him to the kitchen. There she found the new eyeliner and decided to play with it, as Tanner knew she would. When she was finished getting ready for Studio 54, she put it on the dining room table. Then Tanner chased Coco, my cat, over to said table. Coco saw the pencil, and started one of those soccer games cats do, and batted it around till she went for the goal. She eyed Tanner with a smirk and whacked it high into the air. He readied himself, did a twisting jump, and gracefully caught the evidence. He then hid it under his paw, brought it back to the bed, and started chewing his Nylabone to make sure I would not wake and Ryan would not look away from the television screen.

Then he went to town , with the two of us none the wiser. I have to give him credit. He pulled off the perfect crime and ate the evidence, to boot. But no crime is “perfect,” and it was his sloppiness that got him in the end. Oh, he will go behind bars. I guarantee his crate awaits.

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My children are in that phase where all words referring to bodily functions and private parts are hilarious to think of, let alone utter. I call it the Beavis and Butthead phase, and I am eagerly awaiting it’s passing. However, I am not holding my breath as it appears my husband never actually outgrew it himself. So, with that in mind, we were trying to think of names for our new puppy. I am throwing out the more traditional names like Max and Charlie. Jake says, “Let’s name him Gary.” Okay, not where I was going but, a name nonetheless. I say, “How about Copper or Cinnamon?”

Ryan: “I have a great idea, how about Cinnamon Toast Weiner?”

All: Ha ha ha, lots of laughs.

OK, game on.

Jake: “How about Tushie-Face?”

Ryan: “Hee hee, good one Jake.”

Minutes go by and Ryan comes running across the park and screams for all the other families to hear, “Listen listen, we should name our dog Vagina.”

Jake: “Yeah, we’d be like, ‘Come hear Vagina. Sit Vagina.’”

I am making every attempt not to make this into a big deal and give it too much attention, but the attention we’re getting is making me uncomfortable. “Could we keep this conversation down just a little bit?” Then I went on to suggest more realistic names. I know I’m a party pooper. Hee Hee…I wrote pooper.

Well, if anyone isn’t a party pooper, it’s my husband.

Mark: “I know – we should name it Penis, and then when people say, ‘Jake what are you doing?’ you could say, ‘Oh, I’m just playing with my Penis.’”

Mind you this is a concept a 7yr old would not come up with on his own volition, but it didn’t take long for him to catch on.

Jake: “Yeah…Hey hey hey, listen. I could say ‘I just taught my Penis to fetch.’”

All, but me: HEHEHEHE HAW HEW HAW HAHA -and tear filled laughter.

Ryan: “That’s not fair, ‘cause I don’t have a penis, I have a heinie.”

Taking Ryan’s penchant for the word vagina into consideration, I decide this is the wrong time for an anatomy lesson.

My husband is finally aware of the wrong turn this conversation has taken, and reeled it in by suggesting a name we can really use: Butt Munch. Ah, the ever popular with the pre-teen set, Butt Munch.

All but me: HA HEE HEE HE HA HE HEW HAW HA.

This idea sparked tons of laughter and affirmation. First of all, my children had never been exposed to this term, so they found a special joy in both it’s profanity and it’s originality. They beamed with pride as if their father, king of the potty mouths, had just coined it. Secondly, they liked the way it just rolled so easily off of their tongues. “Butt Munch. Come here Butt Munch. Sit Butt Munch. Bad Butt Munch.”

Ryan: At the top of her lungs, “Jake you’re a Butt Munch.”

Jake: “No Ryan, you’re a Butt Munch.”

Me: “No Daddy’s a Butt Munch… thanks Mark!”

Mark: “Please, they could be saying much worse.”

Me: “Perhaps you should teach it to them. Jake doesn’t know Mother Fucker, maybe you could remedy that.”

For the last two weeks Jake has told everyone willing to listen that Ryan wanted to name our new dog Vagina, and Ryan now uses Butt Munch as a verb, noun, and adjective, sometimes in the same sentence. My friend Susan asked her if she was ready to go home the other day and she replied, “No way, Butt Munch.” I’m so proud.

PS We brought our dog home a couple of days ago, and though Ryan is still calling him Butt Munch, we as a family went with the more traditional, Ass Face. I hope she comes around.

This weekend we were sent a Clifford, the bid red dog stuffed animal, along with a beautifully laminated journal containing an entry from each of the class members he spent weekends with in the past. Each page was beautifully written, typed, or hand calligraphied. All were accompany by a montage of pictures showing the quality time each child and their family spent with Clifford. Clifford attended dinners, parties, one family even took him to the dog park…alone. Either I have the craftiest mothers in my class, or these ladies are truly hard-up for companionship.

Ryan’s teacher: I am sorry Jenny; I was unable to accept your pages for the Clifford journal, as there were a few problems. You wrote that he “passed-out” from too much beer and wings while watching the Super Bowl with you and your husband. I don’t know if you are aware that we read these Clifford journals to the class first thing Monday morning.

Crappy Mom, AKA Me: I was not aware of that.
Ryan’s Teacher: I doubt Ryan would appreciate me reiterating how Clifford spent Friday and Saturday as you put it, “ …in his sack, suffocating.” Or that you “…found him sad, lonely, and dehydrated Sunday evening.” I would send him home with you for another weekend, but I fear for his health in your hands, not to mention his sobriety.

Crappy Mom, AKA Me: His sobriety? Had a known was battling alcoholism, I never would have played the drinking game where you chug every time someone scores. In my defense, it was T-Bone’s idea.

Buddy, my dog, my first born, is 15. I got him my sophomore year and as my dad says getting him was the best purchase this shopahollic ever made. He put up with the craziness of college, people coming and going at all hours often blowing odd substances in his face.

He endured the lean years when I boycotted toys because he ate and pooped them all out. Unfazed, he adorably brought me pieces of slobbery lint and coughed them up in front of me wagging his tail so that I would try to throw one. Then he would retrieve it (though wet lint doesn’t travel far) as if it was the best ball in the world and enthusiastically continue the cycle.

He survived eating an entire bag of blowpops which came out the other end like taffy that had to be pulled and pulled, by hand to get out. A job I handed off to my then roommate as I was late for work. I should say SHE survived that one. (Seeing as she is currently my closest friend, she barely holds a grudge. Though she hasn’t been able to look at a piece of gum since.)

He out-lived his long time love; a very attractive and preppy bean bag pillow who he constantly abused after sex, by biting her and swinging her vigorously from side to side. Then he would ignore her till their next rendezvous. Hmm… sounds like one of my exes. One fateful day he bit too hard and when he swung her, she profusely bled itty-bitty styrofoam balls. For weeks he somberly attempted to meet for trysts but she was a shell of the booty call she once was, and eventually we buried her… in the trash. He tried to date other pillows but I think for him, they could never compare.

He withstood living with my dad who for a month forced him to wear a girly Israeli flag bandana that read SHALOM. My dad would take him to dog-runs hoping to attract the right king of bitch. Unfortunately, Buddy technically male, but snipped at birth, had some tendencies and enjoyed other dogs balls a little too much. But, my dad never wavered in his love, saying only, “As long as he’s Jewish.”

He won over my husband who raised with cats, swore Buddy would never move in with us, only to find himself as in love as anyone else whose path Buddy ever crossed. And when he moved to NYC he adapted to the concept of grassless pooping and even got used to the salt lined streets that sent him into a crying limp until I could find a patch of snow to pack up under his paw for relief.

He tolerated my son Jake who quickly stole the limelight making our once Golden Child feel like a dog for the very first time. He took it in such stride that he became body guard to this little human that was pulling his tail and trying to ride him like a pony. In 2006 he had a proper Bark Mitzvah with brunch, candle-lighting and thirty in attendance. (Picture included). He barked through his haftorah so beautifully that had Randy Jackson been there he would have said “Yo, Dog, dat was the bomb.”

Now he is 106 and pees and poops so much that I spent a month cutting a gorgeous 20×16 shag rug. Everyday razoring out another chunk till it was a sorry 2×3 backdoor mat. He pants like a sex caller throughout the night, and requires being let out what feels like every 27 minutes. He trips out the door without fail and then spryly bounces back in like this perfect beautiful puppy. In moments of spunkiness he laps my pool table like a greyhound over and over and over and over. He is deaf and mostly blind though he can still read lips. He walks on a tilt because of a herniated hip and often completely loses footing as his legs uncontrollably spread eagle beneath him. And if you are carrying food he’ll take your arm off to get it. Unless you say “easy,” then his jaw quivers so gently, he could remove a tic tac without touching skin.

Every morning when I wake the first thing I do is look at him asleep so sweet, like horse that has fallen sideways. Then I look at his stomach for rise and fall. I am morbidly hoping that he has gone peacefully in his sleep so that I will never be confronted with the other option. My father asked where I will have him buried when he goes. A pet cemetery is too creepy. The truth is I’m one of those crazy people who think, maybe I could just have him stuffed. Not like eyes open greeting you at the front door kind of stuffed. You know asleep in a ball chin on paws kind of thing. But then I imagine my cleaning lady having to dust him and like Rosie from the Jetsons raising him over her head to vacuum underneath and I think maybe just an urn will do.