WARNING: This post contains unsolicated advice regarding dog ownership,which may be offensive to those with more patience than me.

So I was highlighting my hair... (because you may remember in an earlier post that my kindergartner decided his 60-something-ish teacher was hotter than me, and for cryin' out loud, I had to do something....) and after 30 painstaking minutes of trying to get the activator stuff in all the right places, I realize that it's eerily quiet in the house. So, naturally, like any responsible parent who hasn't been paying a lick of attention to anything but herself for the past half-hour, I wander out of the bathroom and start yelling the names of my children. Turns out that they're outside playing in the part of the flower-bed they've claimed for their sandbox. (On a side note, it drives Mike crazy that they play in there, stomping on the various greenery and such. But you'll note that while he claims to hate it, and makes a big stink every time they get to digging around and driving their trucks through it, he has NOT actually taken any steps toward putting in the sandbox they've been asking for for 3 years now..... But I digress......)

Since my children are accounted for, and since I don't particularly care if they play in that corner of the flower-bed, I walk into the kitchen and set the timer for 20 minutes. But something just seems amiss.....Something I can't quite put my finger on....... and then I realize what it is. No dog. And because the universe has a fabulous sense of humor, precisely when I have this realization the phone rings. It's my neighbor, Mindy, from down the street. She's at the pool with her kids and at least half the neighborhood. And so's my dog. Barking his fool head off at everybody, trying to get someone -- anyone -- to throw him the disgustingly slobbery tennis ball he's scavenged from the woods.

Apparently he's been there for right around 30 minutes -- which means that the instant he knew I was totally and completely distracted, he made a break for it. The kids get lost in their own little world of make-believe, and leave the door standing wide open as they trek in and out gathering more props for their story-line. Sammy, large though he is, can be incredibly stealthy, somehow shrinking in size and disappearing down the street like a theif making a mid-night get-away. Luckily, Mindy thinks it's funny that he's there -- barking incessantly as he tries to badger someone into playing fetch. But I know there are people there who don't, and I groan as I take stock of the situation. There I am -- highlight activator shit gooped into my hair, sporting a ratty old T-Shirt that I don't care if I get bleach on, and a pair of light colored Capri pants that totally show the navy blue pair of underwear I have on. Obviously, I wasn't planning on leaving the house anytime soon.

"Gibson!" I yell out the door. "Sammy's at the pool! Can you get on your bike and go get him?" He looks skeptically at me like he can't believe I'm about to send a 7 year old out on a solo retrieval mission. But I am, because I'm desperate. I describe my situation to my neighbor, who laughs and compares me to the crazy lady who shows up out in public in her bathrobe and slippers with curlers in her hair..... which, if I'm honest, is pretty close. "I'm sending Gibson for him, so keep your eye out, will ya'?" I ask. She agrees, and then I hear her talking to someone in the background. "Oh! Hey Rachel..." she says. "Robin is here and she says she can bring Sammy home if you want her to."

Crap.

"Ummmm no, that's OK. Tell her Gibson's on his way.... but Thanks!"
Robin* is another neighbor of mine. One I had a falling out with last summer -- over the goddamn dog and his multiple escapes to the pool. (Seriously -- for a hundred pound lab, he's one heck of a Houdini.) She didn't know me very well then, and I think it's safe to say that she'd made some assumptions about me that weren't very accurate. And though that whole situation makes for a good long story, with lots of drama and name-calling, I'm not going to tell it here. We've patched things up, the two of us, and it's just not worth cracking the lid on that can of worms. I know that her offer to bring Sammy home is just an extension of her goodwill -- further proof that we've buried the hatchet -- but it makes my stomach hurt a little all the same.

I close my eyes and rest my gooped-up head against the cupboard while Mindy keeps me posted on the situation. Gibson's there.................. He's trying to get a handle on Sammy. Looks like he forgot the leash..................... Sammy doesn't appear to want to listen. He's laying down in the grass and won't get up.....................Oh wait.......... Gibson has Sammy's ball. Sammy's getting up now. OK -- Now he's following Gibson................. No, he's not............. Wait. Yes, he is.................. They're crossing the bridge........ Headed into the woods............ Looks like they're on their way home. Should be there in 5 minutes.
I thank Mindy and hang up, grateful that she was there to give me the head's up, and also grateful that I didn't have to show up at the neighborhood pool looking like the crazy lady in the bathrobe and curlers showing off her dark colored panties.

And at the risk of offending any dog-lovers who may be reading my incessant drivel..... I'm going to go ahead and state for the record that once you have kids DOGS ARE A GIGANTIC PAIN IN THE ASS. That's right. You heard me. A pain in the ass. And every time I hear someone who has children muse about how wonderful it would be to get the kids a dog I want to hurl myself at their feet and wrap my arms around their ankles begging and pleading with them -- for the love of God! Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeease, Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease, Pleeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeease -- not to do it.

I know the idea sounds romantic. I even know the images that they conjure up in their heads when they consider it. But here's what hasn't even crossed their minds. They have yet to imagine what it will be like when they're dealing with 50 other things that the kids have going on in the front yard and the dog decides to saunter into the yard next door and casually take a gianormous horse-sized crap RIGHT IN FRONT OF THE NEIGHBOR who just happens to be out working in his flower bed. They don't consider what it's like to drop everything they were holding to yell out "Sorry Ken!!! I'll be right there to get that!!!!!!! while they frantically dig around for a plastic bag and scramble over into his yard, smiling sheepishly and trying to make polite small talk while they scrape up the enormous poo mound.

I bet they haven't given any thought to how much fun it will be when they walk in the front door, having left the house to run a quick errand, to find the entire contents of the kitchen garbage can strewn all over the first floor of the house. Two days worth of coffee grounds, onion peels, broccoli butts, the leftover scrapings from last night's dinner, empty cereal bags, moldy cheese, egg shells, breadcrumbs and anything else that may have gotten stuffed in there over the past few days...... Everywhere. Every. Where. Ground into the teeny-tiny cracks between the hardwood planks so that once they have all the big stuff cleaned back up, it takes an additional 40 minutes of scrubbing - on their hands and knees, of course - to get all the gunk out of there. And how maybe, if they're lucky, their dog will be wearing the top of the garbage can like a cone collar that he couldn't get off his head once he'd decided to go for broke.

They don't consider how much fun it will be to wrestle him down and pry the can lid off, as he yelps in pain because the opening of the trash can lid isn't all that big to begin with -- purchased specifically so he COULDN'T jam his big head into it -- and all that backwards prying is hurting his ears. And I know they're not imagining that the wrestling match would take place after they'd spent a solid 10 minutes chasing him around the house, while he dodged their grasp like a slick pig because he knew that he was in trouble, but he's a lab and the garbage can was RIGHT THERE and oh-my-god-he just couldn't help himself.

And I'll bet they also haven't considered how much fun it will be when he trots inside after consuming approximately 5 gallons of dirt -- because HEY! Why Not?!?! -- unbeknownst to the rest of the family who were busily planting a garden next to the house. And how he'll accompany that tasty meal with about 5 gallons of water, because a meal of nothing but dirt can make a dog VERY thirsty. And then, they'll find out the hard way, that 5 gallons of dirt plus 5 gallons of water is just a taaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad bit more than a doggy stomach can hold. And it'll be nothing but AWESOME when pukes it all back up on the family room floor an hour later while they're playing a bowling game with the kids, enjoying a family night for the first time in a month.

I'm going to go out on a limb here and assume that they haven't even imagined yet how this might cause the husband of the family to scream "OH MY GOD!!!" while he runs for some towels to try to contain that gastro-intestinal disaster, while his wife stands there in horror, paralyzed by the sight of the gigantic black tsunami oozing it's way across the family room floor and underneath the kid's geo-tracks. And how she wants to move -- she really does -- but she can't, because she's still trying to figure out how that brackish puddle, easily measuring 10 feet in diameter, could ever have actually fit inside that stupid dog to begin with.

Pain in the ass, I tell you!

Oh -- We loved our dog once. We did! He even accompanied us on our honeymoon. But this was before kids - and like it or not, kids change everything. In fact, before you give me that "you-obviously-don't-love-your-dog-the-way-I-do-and-I-would-never-be-like-you-you-cold-hearted-bitch" look, I want you to know that I've been there. I've stood right in those shoes. You may find this hard to believe, but once upon a time, I stood in the middle of my sister-in-law's kitchen skeptically listening to her mother explain how once you have kids you look down and realize that your dog is just a dog. And I glanced up to see that exact look on my husband's face. And I knew what he was thinking because I was having precisely the same thoughts myself....

But HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Joke's on us. Because it turns out that she was right. At some point in between the middle-of-the-night feedings, and the rocking, and the soothing, and the diaper changing, and the laundry folding, and the bed-time-stories, and the meal preparation, and the kitchen cleaning, and everything else that goes into raising a family, he became just a dog. And one gigantic pain in my ass.

I could continue. Just go on, and on, and on, and on, but I won't. First and foremost because I have SO much material to support my case, that this post would never end. And second, because I think I've made my point.

So if you're thinking about getting a dog, by all means, don't let me dissuade you. I mean they're sweet, and lovable, and they're always happy to see you, and no matter what they love you so much, and yeah, yeah, yeah..... They're all of that. But don't be fooled into thinking that they're not a giant pain in the ass too.

I'm just sayin'............
Buyer-Beware.

And you should know that I'm not above saying I told you so.



* Name changed to protect the newly mended "hey, we like each other" nature of our relationship.