I’m about to share something with you which you may or may not want to hear, depending on whether or not you tend to be squeamish about the various elements dogs have a tendency to produce. If you are, I suggest you read no further.
If you aren’t sure what I’m referring to, here, allow me to provide a visual aid.
You’re still here. What are you doing? You do understand that this is just a sample, don’t you? That I may or may not venture into other areas of the dog which could potentially involve another end?
Seeing that I have not lost your company, I can only conclude you’re either a very sturdy soul or else have some strange fascination with the vaguely grotesque.
I’m sure some clever reader is now saying to themselves, ‘well then, dear writer, you must also possess some element of this strange appeal towards boyish charms, for you are taking the time to tell me about it, now aren’t you?’
Right you are, my clever friend, but not because it appeals to me. While I admit to being overly curious on most occasions, getting myself into trouble by my own inquisitiveness from time to time, that is not the cause of my forbearance in this case. No, I’m afraid I must attribute my acceptance of such uncivilized matters as this on the fact that I was brought up alongside a good stock of sturdy boys and the company of dogs since I was a child.
To thrive (or perhaps survive) in such an environment, one must either learn great tolerance for the grotesque or else become a target of the wretched stuff and, consequently, those producing it (which are of course, boys and dogs.)
Seeing that I so enjoyed the company of both these creatures as a child, and could not bear to part with either, I learned tolerance.
But now I’ve gone off on a tangent and nearly forgotten what I was about to tell you. Before I lose it entirely, I shall suffice it say, consider yourself forewarned my friend.
So to continue with my story: Every morning I open up the back porch to let Bear go out to do his thing, wait a moment, then allow him back inside. Recently, however, I’ve come to realize that I have been missing a vital step in the process. It is, you see, that when my dog pees, his front leg functions as the direct target.
All of it. Utterly drenched and dripping, you’d think he had dunked his leg in something.
That’s right, my dog not only knows how to pee on himself, he manages to do it every single morning. As you can imagine, between the size of his body and his strange fascination and obsession with water, this is not a little bit of anything.
It’s a lot.
The first time I caught him in the act I asked him if he was joking, to which he simply offered me a mischievous grin as only dogs can do, and continued with his business. Either he doesn’t know his own strength or he just enjoys being male and dog in very odd way.
Needless to say, I’ve had to tweak the process of his re-entrance, adding a few minutes of quick, one-leg cleaning before he comes bounding back inside across the floor. While I’m in the process of getting this done, he often stares down at me with a curious look that seems to say,
‘blimey lassy, what’s the big deal’
To which I promptly remind him that though he is my dog and I adore him so, I am neither boy nor dog. And though I’ve learned to accept, ignore and adapt, I will always be a girl. And girls simply lack appreciation of such things.