Treat Jar

Hi. I haven't been here in a while. I've been sick and busy and depressed. Not the clinically depressed kind of depression where I need medication to keep me from jumping off the ledge. Just the worn out, I can't focus on anything but making myself feel good kind of funk. Anyways, I feel like I'm getting better, and I'm starting to bounce back some. I've missed you guys.

When I started this blog, I was afraid I would limit myself to a single topic with this blog title. I kind of did, but then I took the stance of, "I don't give a shit. I'm going to write what is amusing to me." This post deviates from my normal protocol, and it is about me and a typical day in my household.

Hubs and I are building a house. Well, we will be. As soon as the slab is poured. Hopefully next week if the weather keeps playing nicely. We have been tossing around the idea of getting a storage building for our glorious shit, so I thought this Thursday night after we finished "talking," I would just start packing. Huh. That'll freak him out. But it was just to get some shit out of the way and to go through all the stuff I'd like to throw away. I was in a bad mood, and I like to do this in a bad mood because I'm hardly emotionally attached to anything at a time like that. Usually I'm just like, "Fuck this trinket. We won't even like each other in a couple of years and I'll be storing this shit, and the bugs love to chew on stuff like this." or "Stick this piece of shit in here, maybe it will get bent out of shape or torn and I won't have to put it out at the new place. I can just say it got fucked in the move. But I'll say it nicely like 'I loved that exquisite piece of shit, but it didn't survive the move.'"

My Australian Shepherd, Sookie, started going a little nuts, so I knew it was time to go outside. I grabbed the treat jar with the liver treats in it. I have this weird habit of tossing things from hand to hand. I don't know why, but it's usually cylindrical objects like bottles of water. I use my right hand to throw it as hard as I can to my left hand from that distance. It's weird, but I'm owning it. Anyway, I tossed the treat jar from my right hand to my left, and I guess since it's square in shape and awkward when being sailed through the air, left hand missed and it just kept flying. I say I missed. I don't even think it registered to my left hand. In fact, if you were standing about ten feet in front of me, I bet it would appear I was just like, "Fuck this treat jar," and then just threw it to my left as if I were in a landfill. Still, I was kind of shocked when it hit the tile floor and shattered into a million pieces.

I cracked my rib coughing while I was so sick, and I swear it broke during another coughing fit I was awoken with one night. Needless to say, I was having a difficult time sweeping up the pieces. John came into the room to check and make sure everyone was alright and offered to sweep it up for me. But first he wanted me to look at something. "Here, come see this," he said. He was looking at some of his old sports memorabilia collection. So I sit down on the guest bed as he goes through the closet, "This is blah-de-blah's card when he went blah-de-blah. This guy was a nobody and then I blah-blah-blah signy-sign fucky-fuck card." This went on for like three minutes, and while I was interested in his collection and trying to be respectful, my mind was in another place. I think it was actually asleep. Then I just thought, "Crap. Treat jar." So I got up and went to get the broom and dust pan, and when I walked in there, Boo Boo (my elderly Pekingese) was finishing the last liver treat. I freaked inside. John came into the room again when he heard me dramatically scream, "Nooooooo!" I've included a picture of my Prince for effect.

Boo Boo

If you're soulless and for reasons that I just can't imagine don't have a dog, I will break this down for you. Liver treats are very soft, much like molding clay. I was certain shards of glass had stuck in the treats and therefore made their way into my tiny 10 year old dog's delicate digestive tract.

I looked at John and said, "He ate them all. He's fucked."

"Oh, shit." he replied.

So I said, "He's sleeping with us tonight."

John asked, "What are you going to do if something's wrong with him?"

"Uh, wake up and freak out." I retorted matter-of-factly, leaving off, "Then you're going to haul us to the vet." I would just be much too hysterical to drive.
I went to the bedroom, sat on the bed and put him on my rug, inspecting him for a little bit. He didn't seem to be displaying any signs of choking or anything like that. So I googled, "My dog ate glass." (Can I just mention as a side note - go type in the phrase, "my dog ate," and see if Google doesn't suggest a completely absurd list of topics.) The blogs suggested making him eat cotton. The following ridiculous exchange takes place between myself and Hubs:

"They said you can make them eat cotton because it surrounds the shards of glass, and they'll just poop them out without incident."

"How are you going to make him eat cotton?" John asked.

"Well, I could rub some cotton balls on my asshole." He gawked intently at me, so I felt the need to explain. "He loves the taste of his own asshole."

John blankly stared in my general direction as if to consider this idea. Not wanting to lose him, I was like, "Here. Rub them under your balls."

"I AM NOT DOING THAT." he replied, and got into the shower, shutting the door behind him and leaving me alone to consider how fucked up this entire conversation was and the fact that it was all my idea.

I dismissed the cotton balls, not wanting to launch into an inner dialogue with myself about how weird I am to me. Instead, I poured Boo Boo a cereal bowl full of cheese doritos. So far, there are no signs of injury nor internal bleeding. My brain, however, could use a band-aid or two I'm sure.

What. The. Fuck?