So part of this whole deal of getting to live at my parents house and take baths and cook on the grill, is that I have to take care of this here dog. I don't know if they're going to take him to LA or not. Frankly, I think they should because he is the exact kind of dog who would actually like to wear outfits and sit in a special, bejewelled dog purse while he shops at Kitson. I really think this dog would be happier in Los Angeles. I mean, for the record and all.
It's not that I don't like dogs. I do. I like all animals really. I am definitely an animal person, however, I just don't usually like my family's dogs as much as other people's dogs. I like dogs with fur and I like big dogs much better than small dogs. I like dogs who run on the beach and fetch things. I like dogs who do work and who can flip milkbones off their noses and into their mouths.
My family has always had fairly useless dogs. All of our pets have "issues." None of them are mentally stable and I don't know why this is, although I have a few guesses which I won't mention because the novelty of the bathtub and the grill still hasn't worn off. The dog you see above, is useless. He has all sorts of mental problems. I don't even think Cesar Milan could whisper to him (partly because the dog is deaf). He can't hunt, fetch or do tricks. He also has no inclination to play or move and he greatly prefers to pee IN the house thank you.
I think the dog's problems started with his unfortunate name. My mother had the bad timing to bring her new puppy home while our dear Jamaican friend Ackee-Man was staying with us. Ackee-Man looks exactly like Emeril, which has nothing to do with the story, but I thought was interesting to note anyway. Now Ackee-Man is one of those guys who is always with women who are total, raging maniacs. He loves women who scream at him and practically blow out the speakers on the cell phones because they are so mad at him. He calls them "passionate." Some of them he gets pregnant which makes them rage more. He never has any money because he has to pay them all child support, so at various times and between various jobs, Ackee-Man has come to stay with us to get some peace and quiet from all his screaming baby-mamas. We like this because he is a good cook and whenever he visits he makes us authentic Jamaican food that is really spicy and yummy. Ackee-Man is a good cook but not a good dog namer.
Ackee-Man thought it would be hysterical to name the new puppy Bomboclaat. Since no one really knew what it meant, everyone called the dog Bomboclaat, which is one of the most vile and insulting Jamaican cuss words there is and means something along the lines of a used tampon, although there is some dispute. In any case, it's bad. Never go to Jamaica and call someone a Bomboclaat, or you will get your ass beat. Ackee-Man thought this was a very funny trick to play on us.
Some time after Ackee-Man left the puppy was out in the yard when the Jamaican landscapers were there cutting down a tree. One of them asked my mother the puppy's name and she simply replied "Bomboclaat" which sent the landscapers in a fit because they thought she was calling them names. They left the tree and never came back. But Bomboclaat remained the dog's name.
Then my parents decided to take the dog to the new Jamaican vet. When she saw the dog's name on his chart she had a fit and wouldn't treat him.
"Dat a terrible word!" she scolded.
My parents had no clue. The dog faced a lot of rejection. To make him feel better they spoiled him. When they learned he was deaf, they felt badly and spoiled him more, although the good part about his hearing loss is that he has no idea he is named after the worst Jamaican cuss word, so it may actually be a blessing.
One of the ways they spoiled him is by indulging the dog in a truly bizarre habit he had of wanting to suck people's thumbs. I thought it was disgusting. I have no desire for a dog or anyone else for that matter, to suck my thumb. This dog would thumb-suck for hours. He will practically maul you to get at your thumb which he will then jam down his throat and proceed to nurse upon, drooling all down your hand. It's gross.
They also spoiled him by letting him eat near constantly. Bomboclaat began to think that all the food in the house belonged to him. When we brought in bags of groceries and set them on the kitchen floor, Bomboclaat would stand by them, bristled and growling if anyone tried to get near his groceries. Once he almost ripped my throat out over a box of filet mignon from Costco. At times he takes fallen scraps, things like a piece of a cheeto that fell on the floor or a wrapper of something he pulled out of the trash, and he hides these things in the cushions of his dog bed. Then whenever someone walks by he turns into a Mini-Pin version of Cujo, starts snarling until he hyperventilates and then foams at the mouth and pees on himself. We've tried to explain to him that we have no interest in an old butter box or a pbj crust, but he won't believe us. Oh wait. He's deaf and he can't read lips. He imagines we are saying:
"Bomboclaat we are going to steal your stash of green potato chip edges and twist ties because we can't live without these things and want to take them and hide them under our own beds!"
So because Bomboclaat ate constantly and without any discretion, he became morbidly obese. The dog actually had rolls. He looked like a sausage on toothpicks. All you needed was to wrap him in some puff pastry and dip him in honey mustard. His obsesity caused his trachea to constrict so he constantly made these horrible coughing, choking, wheezing noises, especially if he got excited over things like boxes of filet mignon from Costco. The sound didn't add to his appeal.
Maybe I could have overlooked all of this had Bomboclaat been nice, but he's just never been a very friendly or affectionate dog. He hates to be picked up or pet and he won't walk on a leash like a normal dog. He chokes himself worse and refuses to move most of the time until you get sick of him and take him back inside the house to pee. I've tried just letting him wander in the backyard for a little while but he stands at the backdoor and shrieks with a sound I have never heard come out of a dog, although I once heard a 40 year old Jewish woman do the exact same thing in the airport when she found out her flight to JFK was delayed. Bomboclaat hates being outside. It's like he's yelling:
"God Dammit you assholes!! Let me back in the house. I have to pee!!!"
Another problem this damned dog has is that he stinks, but it's not an ordinary dog stink at all. It can't be cured by a bath. Bomboclaat smells like his name. He's like walking, rotting garbage on a choke chain. Someone suggested that he needs his anal glands released. I suggested that they do this because I want nothing whatsoever to do with a dog's anus, especially if this awful smell is emanating from it. I will take him to the groomers and have them do it. He seems to enjoy his horrendous odor though and loves dead things and stinky things of all kinds. In the yard he tirelessly searches for dead animals, especially the dead worms that collect mysteriously on the patio. I call them worm jerky. They are Bomboclaat's favorite treat. First he rolls in them and then he eats them. Then he screams to go back inside.
I've got Bomboclaat on a new program now. He's on a diet and he gets no people food. I swear he's lost several pounds or the equivalent thereof already. I don't care how much he begs or how much he coughs and sputters, I am not sharing my BBQ sandwich with this dog. He got so desperate he even begged me for some watermelon.
Bomboclaat and I are also walking on the leash, although the first few times he freaked out and pulled and refused to move. I was calm and assertive and it worked. Now Bomboclaat and I take a long, long walk every night and I wear him out.
Can I just take a moment to tell you how much I love Cesar Milan? I love Cesar Milan. Even though I don't have a dog and probably won't, I like watching The Dog Whisperer. I admit it. I watch it because Cesar Milan is one of the hottest men I've ever seen, even if he is only about four feet tall. My friend DD agrees with me. There's just something sexy about the man. I guess it's his calm assertiveness. He also has this wonderful zen-like quality. I would love him to "CHHH" me, which brings me to the sad fact that all of Cesar's tactics work on Bomboclaat, except the CHHHing. I learned this the hard way.
Each night a very scary, creepy weirdo guy decides to walk his dog, a golden pitbull, at the exact same time that I walk Bomboclaat. He walks and listens to his ipod which I am positive contains an long collection of Nordic Death Metal, although Husband argued that he thinks its the World of Warcraft Podcast. Since this guy is so freakishly weird Husband now comes along. The guy looks like Arthur Leigh Allen, and has this terrifying way of standing in the middle of the street and looking down with his head, but up with his eyes, and staring directly at me in the dark. It's a terrifying effect, let me tell you. And his dog is even worse. The pitbull is apparently so dangerous that he suits the thing up like Hannibal Lechter before he lets it out of the house. It has all sorts of harnesses and muzzles and things all over it. At first I thought maybe Arthur Leigh Allen guy did this on purpose to make the dog look scary, but then Bomboclaat decided to mouth off to the pitbull and I saw the reason why the thing can't go out of the house without a cage-like mask around its whole head.
Whenever I see ALA Guy walking down the street I go in the opposite direction. Last night Husband was with me so we decided to keep walking. Bomboclaat, having no sense of his own size in relation to the pitbull's mass, started barking and lunging, at which point the pitbull showed Bomboclaat how to really bark and lunge. I almost had coronary arrest. I was CHHHing like crazy to get Bomboclaat to stop, but he wouldn't back down. So not only is the dog deaf, we now know he is also severely retarded. No amount of CHHHing would make him stop and the scary guy had to drag the pitbull down the road, his nails raking across the asphalt. It was awful. I am now walking Bomboclaat at a different time and if that scary guy is out there still I'll just give up and go walk on the anonymous gay sex beach instead, because that is obviously a much friendlier place.
After we got home Bomboclaat was all worked up and feeling the testosterone racing through his little body so he treated me, while I tried to sleep, to a raunchy threesome that he decided to have on his two stuffed cats. The perversion is too much to write about. He drags around these two, now unidentifiable, stuffed cats and humps them constantly. They've taken so much of his abuse that they just look like lumps of grey fuzz. All night long the threesome wore on. I tried to get him to stop but he made the screeching noise again. He humped and humped and humped. He humped these stuffed animals until he couldn't breathe and he became ragged and weary, but still he forged on until I wondered if he'd somehow found a Viagra on the floor. I did find a weird blue pill on the floor last week. I mean, I don't think my dad would be on - Oh nevermind. I don't want to think about that at all. The pill was probably a valium that fell off of Aunt Kiki the last time she was here. At one point Bomboclaat rested and I honestly thought he had humped himself to death. By about 4am he finally stopped and fell asleep.
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