Will Fill You In On This Shortly

If I haven't told you several times already, here's the news: I need to get out of the house. I need to get out of anyone's house, in fact. You could say that I need to start living alone before I go totally insane.

***edit***

I've never had a mantra before. I don't really consider myself a mantra-type person, preferring to stereotype mantra-type people, along with astrology-type people and most Republicans (ie. Dad), as "nutsos". I like stereotyping. It means I don't have to think.

However, as that sentence was predictably leading up to, I now have a mantra. I didn't even have to make it up - it came prepackaged. And it is - drumroll, please -

There are no bad dogs. There are just bad owners.

If you think that's the most uninspiring Zen-type sentence you have ever heard, I'm with you. It's not inspiring. It's just necessary.

See, the thing is that I really like the dog. She's not a bad dog at heart. She's loving, very intelligent, and affectionate (her choice to display her affection by licking, and my reaction to the licking, we can chalk up to a small personal disagreement). However, she is the most ill-mannered bitch I have ever met in my entire life.

She begs, and this is no look of wistful longing cast from under the table that I'm talking about, either. This is full-on up-jumping scratching barking whining running pacing sneezing (yes, sneezing) barking barking and more barking for the entire meal period. In fact, the only thing whose noise level even rivals her barking is the radio, which is never off. Ever.

EXCEPT when I am at home alone eating, which is when the radio goes off and the dog wanders in for a quick look, only to promptly return to her couch when she realizes That Stingy Little Jerk will not give her any food. By using the wonderful healing powers of that thing known as science, this has lead me to conclude that the dog is perfectly capable of controlling herself when you are not simultaneously throwing her pieces of white bread soaked in chicken grease and threatening to beat the crap out of her if she doesn't stop barking. The powers of observation are wonderful things, you know.

It seems, however, that she is not capable of controlling herself insofar as not peeing right outside my bedroom door (or anywhere else in the house, for that matter) is concerned. Then again, neither is Pilar capable of controlling her...nor mopping up. So that leaves:
1. Happy dog, untroubled by worries of bladder.
2. Happy owner, saved from having to walk dog later.
3. Allison stepping in a warm present while walking down a lightless hallway. It's a present. I suppose I should be happy. But I'm NOT.

Coming soon: HAM!