Let me start out saying, I love my dogs. I love my husband. And I love my kids and cat too. Now that that's out of the way, I'm going to describe to you the gauntlet I just ran.
This is a scene that plays out every morning in some fashion or another. Just like no two snowflakes are the same, no two band of horrors that my animals inflict on me are replicated.
I'm asleep in my bed, dreaming about farts or whatever when my 14 year old blind dog, Snowy barks like she is falling off a cliff next to my face. She has no variation on this bark. She can only make is faster or slower. The pitch, intonation and panic are always the same and it is terrifying. She delivers her bark straight to the zone of my brain that is afraid of spiders and hurricanes.
I peel open one eye. She's there wanting something from me and she has started the countdown to my failure.
My goal becomes this: To get all the dogs walked without waking up the husband, because Father's Day.
I stagger out of bed, look at the time: 8:00am.
As I lurch around looking for a top to cover my sleep tank, the blind dog must be touched every 4 seconds, so she doesn't panic bark again. Sort of like a snooze button on Meth.
I get a shirt on. I'm able to snag her harness and waddle over her to get out the bedroom door.
Her ultimate goal is not to go out, which I already know. Because she's already peed on the carpet. (Thank the lord I bought that mini Rug Doctor last month, I love that thing.) Her main goal is to get treats. She gets a treat before bedtime. That's the routine. Well, when you're a blind diva, it's always dark so it's always night, so it's always bedtime. She cons a lot of treats out of us this way so we can prevent the panic barking. And I went grocery shopping yesterday with the sleeping husband and I know we do not have treats. We forgot to buy new ones.
Did I mention I accidentally doubled my dose if Melatonin last night at like 1:00am? Yup. I did. So I feel like I just had six Margaritas.
I get the dog to the door, leash her up and look at my next two problems in their crates. Spike, the spineless poodle mix and Peanut, the most hardheaded, food focused animal bent on my destruction that you will ever see.
They each have their own agenda for me and I'm not smart enough on a regular day to handle them. I'm already so full of Melatonin that I could probably remove every mole on my left arm with a spoon and feel nothing.
Here are their agendas, so we are clear: Spike would like to pee on everything we own, and Peanut would like to eat everything. (Oh and by the way, these dogs are so untrustworthy that they must still spend nights in crates at 9 and11 years old, respectively.)
Choice: Do I take the old blind one straight out because she has not crapped yet and her anus has the grip of a slug on a salt block? Or do I grab the other two on their leashes and take them with me?
I make the wrong choice, as usual. I walk Snowy out the door. As I get to the bottom of the steps, I hear the Peanut bark.
Now Mr. Anastasia is a super light sleeper, so if this continues, he will wake up. I go back up the stairs and "dangle" Snowy. (Dangling here means you escort the dog down the short stairs, and then come back in and close the retractable leash in the door so they have a makeshift tether.) This is a risk because Snowy is likely to panic bark and wake up the neighborhood. And she will bark 42 times a second, again, like she is falling off a cliff.
Next decision, if I let Peanut out, she is liable to rush down the hallway and eat the blind dog's food, which Snowy munches on throughout the day that is usually barred from Peanut's incessant desires by a baby gate, now open. If I let spineless Spike out, he will shake his ears, as is his habit and then scream at the top of his lungs like a banshee from Hell coming to claim an evil person's soul. You see, he is a tender roni. Five years ago, he injured his spine and we feared we would have to put him down. The surgery was risky and expensive. When we realized that the $5000 surgery held no guarantee that the same thing would not happen to him again, we worked with the vet who told me on the down low that the recovery for the surgery that he didn't get would be what she recommended to me now. He would have to stay in a small crate for two months only coming out to pee or poo. We couldn't cuddle him. (Though I broke this rule as he got better because he was getting like Hannibal Lector in the crate.)
So needless to say, I'm careful with his spine and have been for the last five years. But if he twists the wrong way, he screams.
If I put his leash on him gently right out of the crate, he doesn't do the head thing and doesn't scream.
If I pick him first, Peanut will bark her loudest because she wants a shot at the other dog's food. Or a morsel that hit the floor overnight that she has focused in on, vibrating for the past seven hours like the terminator.
I pick the spine screamer. Now, as I usher him to the dangle situation Peanut is infuriated. She barks at me like she would never bark at an intruder. Did I tell you about Peanut? Well her mother and her uncle had a very Game of Thrones relationship. She has a medieval royal brain.
I get the spine screamer outside so he is safe and now I must get Peanut outside. You see, she is also a bully, and even though the poodle loves her with everything in him, she loves bread. And she will run into the poodle to make him scream. She's like a furry Voldemort. Releasing this dog and getting her leash on her is akin to slippery pig wrestling. I want her to go out and she wants all the bread in the world. And the other dog's food. And that morsel only she can see.
So it begins, I open the crate and combat starts. Don't forget, I'm listening for panic barker and spine screamer, trying to triage their issues while I get this old spaniel ready for the outside world.
I leash her. Success. Now, before I open the door I grab the other two plastic handles. Retractable leashes. Such a bitch, right? The thin line of rope is strung tight and ready to clothesline the back of your knees if your dog, perchance, would be interested in bolting off the stairs like she was shot out of a cannon because she sees a bird. And even though for the entirely of her life, she has been required to sit at the top of the stairs until she is released by her handler, she "forgets" herself and bounds off the stairs like she's jumping into water. So my job is to figure which leash has her at the end of it and brace myself for the impact.
I have to try and watch the black rope carefully so that it doesn't cross with the other two. Then I have to pull her back up the stairs and make her do it the correct way.
I still feel drunk, but I manage to do it.
Now I walk out onto the little path on my yard and commence the bathrooming. Of the dogs. I do it so often, that I forget how complicated this is. Two hands, three retractable leashes and three dogs. I do a combination of moves out there as the three travel in their own, unpredictable orbits around me. Sometimes I step over a fast moving leash. Sometimes I shuffle the plastic leashes like a deck of cards to keep them untangled.
I notice that Snowy now has her back foot tangled. Because there is no way to hold these leashes anywhere but my hands, I have to hold two in one hand, (usually Peanut gets her own hand because she is so unpredictable and hard headed and wildly strong) and do the reverse lassoing of the dog's tiny paw. It requires such precise timing and wrist snapping, it should be amazing, but today I'm off my game and she is still trapped. I can't put the others down and Snowy is starting to panic.
I'm making a plan in my head when a huge, white fluffy moth flies right up my nostril.
Oh my God. Oh my God.
There was no way that giant moth is in my nose. Oh my God. I try and blow him out. (no hands, disgusting) No luck. Oh my God. There is a giant moth in my nose.
The blind dog is panicking toward the stairs, she intends to climb them with one foot tied behind her back.
I can only do one thing.
I INHALE.
I take this moth into my air passage. It's way too big for that. No way it'll fit.
IT DOES.
Oh my God my one eye is closing I have a moth in my face. Jesus.
Don't panic. I have to free the dog's foot. I manage to drag the whole shit show over to my front stoop.
I untangle the blind dog while she tries to bite me and I'm gagging.
I'm able to pull them all through the front door like one of those strong men pulling a train down the tracks. Close the door behind us. Unleash spine screamer, he wants water, so I need to refill the bowl.
THERE IS A MOTH IN MY NOSTRIL.
I try blowing it out in a tissue. Nothing. OH MY GOD nothing.
I unleash furry Voldemort, she bolts for the blind dog's food. I can't even worry about that as I try not to cry.
In my head I turn off. I was like, just don't think about it. For the love of everything holy, ignore it.
But I can feel it in there. Is it still alive? I don't even know. I realize I have to GET IT DOWN. It's not coming out.
So I start chugging water and taking deep breaths. It's still there. I hear the blind dog panic barking at the sleeping husband for treats. She has none, still. I grab a handful of cereal and run down to the bedroom. The husband wakes up just as I burp so loud while trying not to cry and tossing a handful of cereal in the air like it's confetti.
Happy Father's Day? I guess.
I still feel drunk as I write this. And I only wrote this to try and distract myself from the fact that I can STILL FEEL THE MOTH. Oh God. I'm so scared.
