Hurley the Dog is losing his teeth at a rapid rate. Brad claims it’s normal, but I’m pretty sure something is wrong with him. My family always had dogs, and although they weren’t uniformly excellent, I’m pretty sure that none of them were ever stumbling around the house dribbling blood-stained drool from their jowls and relentlessly pursuing the most recently-lost tooth into a corner in order to eat it. Nope. I am pretty sure that my mother would never have allowed that.
But, normal or not, it’s happening, and it’s happening all the time. Which means that, every morning, I struggle to get dressed in office-appropriate clothing while the dog struggles to accessorize my outfit with crimson-tinted slime from his oozing tooth-holes. There’s a rhythm to it; I put my pants on one leg at a time, but in between legs, I pause for a ten-second interlude of shrieking objection while the dog lunges at me and I attempt to banish him from the room.
It’s really hard to accomplish much of anything while wearing half a pair of pants.
A few days ago, I pulled on a dress and looked up to see Hurley advancing on me, blood pooling at the corners of his mouth like Sylvester Stallone in Rocky, and freaked.
“God damnit, get out of here!” I yelled.
The dog looked unperturbed.
Brad came into the room and shooed him away from me.
“Aww, poor guy,” he said, addressing the dog. “Your mom doesn’t like you.”
“No,” I said, exasperated, “I like the dog just fine. I just don’t like him bleeding all over my clothes.”
“He’s not bleeding,” said Brad.
“Yes he is,” I said.
“Ok fine, then you wipe his nasty bloody mouth with something white and see what happens.”
Brad tore a paper towel from the roll, folded it into neat quarters, and offered it to the dog.
He ate it.
If having children is anything like this, I think I’ll just skip it and buy myself a ham sandwich.