I woke up at 4:39 in the morning today. It’s not because I’m hyper-productive or devoted to morning exercise. It’s because my dog George was dry heaving. Or speaking Parseltongue. I don’t know what he was doing, but I didn’t want him doing it on the carpet. If you own a dog, you know that every once in awhile, they just like to throw up. Give it the ol’ heave. It’s what they do.
“Barf barf barf!” I thought, as I hopped out of bed like a kid on Christmas. Only, I wasn’t expecting presents. I was expecting puke.
George and I ran to the door, and I let him go outside and run down the stairs by himself. Surely the spirit of the leash rule doesn’t apply for sick dogs, right?
Maybe the rule doesn’t apply, but the feral cats that live next to our apartment don’t know about the exception. So, they were just hanging out on the stairs. George is against cats hanging out on the stairs, so he started bellowing and chased them off the stairs and into the greenbelt behind our apartment. I started chasing the cats and the puking, barking dog.
Let’s recap. It’s 4:40 in the morning, and a parade of screeching cats, barking dogs, and confused humans are running around in the trees. It’s at this point I realized I was only wearing glasses and boxer-briefs.
I started muttering foul language and ran back up the stairs. I put on some shorts and sandals and went to go find my dog. I also tried to figure out how to explain the missing dog to my wife.
“He’s happier living in the wilderness, like John the Baptist and Bear Grylls.” That is the best I could come up with. I walked up and down our complex, looking for signs of George and/or cat fur. Nothing.
Finally, I just gave up and walked back to our apartment stairs. I sat there for awhile.
People say that before you have kids, you should get a pet, just to get your feet wet with responsibility. And to learn about picking up poop and puke. As I sat on the stairs, waiting for my rebellious 2.3 year old dog, I thought about that. In dog years, George is 17. He’s my rebellious teenager, who was up puking, tried to go to the doctor, and got distracted on the way. Apparently, when I have a 17 year old in 2032*, when he runs off, I will swear at some trees and walk back into my house.
Anyway, I patrolled our complex one more time. I decided that George would get his white butt back to our door sooner or later. Sure enough, when I got back home, he was sniffing some grass below our apartment. He looked up, wagged his tail, and trotted over to get a pat on the head. I gave it to him.
The moral of the story is: People you love can drive you nuts, but y’all love each other, so who cares about the nuts part. After all, in George’s mind, I was the semi-nude human running through the trees.
The Cat Chaser at Rest
*This is conjecture. This year in no way denotes plans to have children exactly in 2015, nor is it a dare to God and/or Mother Nature to make us have kids earlier than that.