Monday, November 12, 2007


Last week, I was subject to a number of freakishly wrong circumstances. The kind that you hope never to find yourself in, ever. Like on Friday, around 4 in the afternoon, when I realized that the baby had hidden the remote, and that Oprah really did intend to have one hundred Osmends on her show. Singing.

And maybe it was Tuesday last week, when I heard an inordinate amound of cursing and yelling, such as might be inspired by a bad dog, from the backyard. The ruckus eventually migrated to the front yard, where I saw out the living room window that Carl had clipped Duke to the line at the tree. I watched him spray the dog with the hose for a while, then stamp around in little circles, gesticulating wildly and moaning something inarticulate at the sky, then spray the dog some more. This went on for some time, Duke all the while pacing the limit of the rope in a miserable attempt to skulk out of range of the icy hose water, tangling up his legs in the process, and looking generally pathetic.

Carl finally came in, still muttering to himself. "DO YOU KNOW WHAT HE DID!"

"no. what." He had his really really crazy eyebrows on, so I knew it had to be bad. Probably something to do with Dog and cat shit.



"That groundhog I buried. Something. Dug it up. Rotting. Carcass. I didn't see what it was in time. He Just Had To. And then he shook himself off! disgusting! gore! flinging! F***ING DOG! HE JUST ROLLED IN THE FETID DISGUSTING GROUNDHOG CARCASS! OH MY GOD DOGS ARE DISCUSTING F***ING DOG!! DOG!! DISGUSTING!! DOOOOOGGGG!!"


"I'm getting the dog shampoo."

So yeah. I know. Donnie and Marie singing "Paper Roses" to Oprah versus rotting groundhog bath. It's a close call.