The ‘b’ word

She mentioned it during dinner, thinking I’d be preoccupied with He’s famous grilled chicken burritos.

But I heard it.

The ‘b’ word.

B – A – T – H.

That spells NO WAY I SMELL JUST FINE.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Confession: I have been a bit smelly lately.

She complains about it – “Gromit’s smelly!” – all the time.

As if I can’t hear. As if I can’t smell what’s going on here. As if I can help it.

She pretends to be Miss Compassionate Love Everyone Liberal but She can be downright insensitive sometimes.

And She says I’m the Best Dog Ever. Ha.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
She’s still unemployed, so yesterday She took me to the Place Where I Get My Pooper Poked.

Sure enough, first thing they do? Poke me in the Pooper.

Then She’s all “Have a treat, Gromit!” as if that’s going to make up for being traumatized yet again by the chubby dude in the white coat who smells like cats and claims I could stand to lose 10 lbs. every time he pokes me in the pooper.

The least he could do is scratch the sack where my nuts used to be. The least.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“C’mon, Gromit,” She says.

I hightail it to the kitchen, pretending to search for leftovers in my bowl.

She’s on to me.

“C’mon, Gromit, let’s GO!” She says, proving yet again that She thinks I’m deaf.

Then She pulls the “C’mon, Grommie, let’s go, Grommie, c’mon, we’re going, let’s go, c’mon c’mon c’mon, LET’S GO” and She sounds SO EXCITED that I lose my mind for a moment and chase She upstairs.

Damn She. I quickly come to my senses and Sit.

She pulls on my collar. I lean back.

She pulls harder. I lean harder.

This is kinda fun.

She pushes my butt. I spin around and go through She’s legs and Sit again.

Finally She corners me, strips me naked, and throws me into the bathtub.

Humiliating.

While I’d never admit it, the warm water feels pretty good, post-pooper poke.

I Shake-Shake-Shake several times, making sure She gets as soaking wet as me.

I let She dry me off (it’s the least She can do) and proceed to run around in Crazy Dog mode until my ears are finally dry.

Then She's all "Grommie, you SMELL so GOOD, you're a GOOD DOG and you SMELL so GOOD blah de freakin' blah."

Right. I know another 'b' word.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Jim’s girlfriend Ginger the weather girl on NBC5
I am reading: Nothing, I’m a DOG
And I am: Clean

He likes fresh sheets

It’s 9:51 Sunday night.

I’m aimlessly wandering the Internet and half listening to the TV when I get the feeling I’m being watched.

It’s Gromit, Genius Dog. Sitting two feet from the couch, willing me to do his bidding.

“What?" I say. "What do you want?”

“Well, Heather, I'm glad you asked. I'd like that crotch-fart Hillary Clinton to drop out of the race before she single-handedly destroys the Democratic party. World peace would be great but I’ll settle for those fuckos in Burma getting their shit together to let the U.N. do its job. Oh, and tater tots. I need tater tots.”

That’s not what he said. But he did start barking. So maybe.

He’s not barking at Jim. He’s barking at me. Except it’s not so much barking as bitching.

"WOO-ROO-WOO-RAA-WOO-WOO-WOO!"

This goes on for what seems like forever but is probably just five minutes when Jim says, “I think he wants you to make the bed.”

Sigh.

On Sundays the sheets and blankets go in the wash. And sometimes they stay there until someone who is ready to go to bed starts complaining.

Usually that someone is Jim.

Gromit follows me into the laundry room to supervise the extraction and gathering up of various bits of bedding and then it’s upstairs we go where he's all but tap tap tapping his impatient little paw while I quickly make things comfy and organized for the night.

I give him the Okay and he hops up, settling in with a loud groanish sigh that is more "It's about time" than "Thank you."

And then I am dismissed, presumably to make tater tots. Or at least e-mail those fuckos in Burma.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: The Devil Wears Prada
I am reading: Front Row at the White House by Helen Thomas
And I am: Here to serve

He gets my jokes

We three are on the back porch before dinner yesterday, soaking up the early Spring sun.

I'm finishing up a glass of water and trying to read about Mary Queen of Scots. Jim is smoking a cigar and yapping about yard projects.

Out of the Blue, Gromit begins barking because a) the neighbor's dog is barking, b) the neighbor's child is outside, c) the neighbor is outside, or d) all of the above, plus the fact that he happens to be OUTSIDE and that's just what he does.

In an effort to shut him up, I say "Grommie, you want some water?" and offer him my empty cup.

Yes.

Gromit will deign to sip from his bowl if he has to, but he prefers fresh water from a cup.

"OUT OF YOUR CUP, HEDY?"

Shaddap. If you ever met Gromit, you'd let him sip out of your cup, too. Seriously. He is one charming-ass dog.

Anyhoo.

As expected, the cup gets his attention and he walks over, well, expectantly. He sticks his snout in the cup and - surprise - no water.

It is at this point I swear he looks up at me with that classic "Ah, ya got me" look and LAUGHS RIGHT OUT LOUD. He opened his mouth and exhaled, just like a laugh, and his tail started wagging like mad.

So there ya go. I may be unemployed but at least I can make the dog laugh.

That's something, eh?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: Frogs out in the pond, birds out in the trees
I am reading: Mary Queen of Scotland by Margaret George
And I am: Really happy

Gromit, Genius Dog

“C’mon, Gromit,” She says. “C’mon, c’mon, c’mon!”

But I, Gromit -- Genius Dog -- shall not be interrupted mid-sniff. And most certainly not whilst partaking in the wondrous waftings of a fresh pile of opossum poop.

However. I do detect abnormal urgency in She’s voice, so I cast a quick glance behind on the trail.

Ah.

Ah-ha.

I suspected as much.

A Shepherd. The German variety, I believe.

And She knows that I tend to be somewhat – shall we say – exuberant among these fair creatures due to fond memories of an ill-fated, beyond-the-fence love affair with a gorgeous, energetic Fraulein named Ufta which ended tragically when She and He abruptly decided to MOVE me from MY YARD where I’d been peeing quite HAPPILY since I was a mere pup. But I digress.

She knows my proclivities so She is rushing Sunday Walkies in an attempt to avoid said Shepherd.

I, Genius Dog, shall have none of this.

In order to be certain She understands my opinion on the serious matter of Shepherd avoidance, I look directly into her batty brown eyes.

And slowly. Quite deliberately.

Sit.

“Gromit Dog! Move!” She yells, yanking my Leash.

When She uses my surname, I know She means business.

But of course this only elicits my patented Withering Stare of Defiance, followed by the Disinterested Yawn and (patent pending) Brief Wiener Inspection.

The He walking the Shepherd laughs, so I join in the merriment. Soon we are all laughing at She, pulling frantically on my Leash.

She gives in. Defeated yet again by Gromit, Genius Dog.

I contain my mirth and leap rapturously for the succulent Shepherd, who sadly passes with nary a glance for yours truly. Bitch.

Walkies re-commence.

“Asshole Dog,” She says, under her breath.

I don’t know about you, but I am of the opinion that only those of the lowest intellect resort to name-calling. Don’t you agree?

Slightly altering this evening’s already hectic schedule, I pencil in “give She a particularly sloppy set of kisses” immediately following my regular après-poop tongue-on-butt scrub.

Asshole. Dog. Indeed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
I am listening to: That insufferable hound two yards over
I am reading: Hello? Nothing. I'm a DOG
And I am: Gromit, Genius Dog