My dog is such a dog.

In this house along with me live three males, one of which I am not so happy to be around lately. I have a tiny Yorkie named Tanner, a son and a Mr. Man. Because I am nothing if not discreet, we will say that it is Tanner that has managed to get on my bad side. (I can use Tanner's name without fear of upsetting him because he is not allowed on the computer unless he has my permission.)

So anyway, Tanner has been a real poop-head lately. (See what he's turned me into? Some sort of sailor mouthed female.) His job has been very stressful for him recently and as a result, he is completely unpleasant to be around. He's grumpy, ungrateful and what's even worse, he swears nothing is wrong with him.

For the next several months, Tanner has to work twelve hour night shifts protecting our country's nuclear interests, in addition to arriving at work at least thirty minutes prior to his shift. Because I appreciate having a dog that will work like one and because I am a goddess, everyday I wake him up mid-afternoon with an elaborate breakfast in bed. Brown sugar smoked ham, scrambled eggs with fresh garlic and real butter, fresh fruit with French vanilla whipped cream and of course, hot coffee. And so that he doesn't get bored with eating the same things day after day, I also make sure that each day, I prepare something different. No hard working dog of mine should have to eat kibble.

Everyday I have to ask Tanner if his breakfast is ok, because Heaven forbid he should tell me how fabulous it is.

And it is.

Did I forget to mention that although Tanner and I have been together for roughly five years and I have complained for at least 4.9999% of those five years about the sock issue, he still takes off his socks so that they create a thoroughly disgusting ball of sweaty smelliness? As if it weren't enough to continually torture me with this intolerable habit, he also feels the need to scatter them about our bedroom like they are fragrant rose petals left for his new bride.

Same goes with dirty underwear. Tanner apparently looks on dirty underwear as something that will someday have incredible value in society. That is the only reason I can possibly come up with that would explain his need to hide them all over the room. Under the bed, behind dressers, and at the foot of the bed between the sheets and comforter.

Tanner may be a Yorkie, but he is a pig.

When I first met Tanner, he was a crazy romantic. He said the most wonderful things to me on a daily basis, all of which I ate up with a spoon. I was beautiful, funny, smart and the single best thing that God ever invented...to include March Madness and rawhide bones. He always took great care with his appearance and more importantly sometimes he smelled so good I would often feel faint whenever he walked into the room.

Now I feel faint for another reason all together.

Here is the point in the story where I would typically insert a long list of complaints about our "relations" and how foreplay has gone from tender and thoughtful to "It's 10 o'clock", but as we are talking about Tanner here, that would just be wrong.

So what's a girl to do when her Yorkie no longer worships her? Maybe I should change my hair or lose 100 pounds or get blue contacts in order to get his attention. Maybe I should learn a foreign language so that I can whisper sweet French nothings in his ear or get a stripper pole and learn to do whatever it is strippers do that cause men to spontaneously fling their mortgage payments at them.

Or maybe I should just take him to the vet and get his who-ha's chopped off.

Yeah. Let's do that.

Copyright © 2004, Sherri Bailey
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