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Stinky Girl   

  For men who endure wives owning those “adorable” dogs instead of the genetically superior {hunting} breeds, I share in your misery. When did Lassie lose out to the hairless lab rat gnawing on Paris Hilton’s arm? If you live with such a vile creature, your life’s about as wonderful as poison ivy to a leper colony.

 

  My wife has Roxie the Jack Russell or the malicious midget from Hell as she is better known. And make no mistake, she can do no wrong. No matter the inadequacy of holding bladder fluids, it wasn’t her fault—she’s little and couldn’t help it.

 

  No matter the slick brown sausages greeting my early morning bare feet, it wasn’t her fault—she’s little and couldn’t help it.  Her evil world is driven by two insatiable needs, food and greed. She shows no shame at begging, giving cute barks, snuggling, or face licks to quench her bottomless, never ending, cavernous hole of a gut.

It’s a deceitful ploy to divide and conquer the household inhabitants—and she went “medieval” on yours truly from day one.

 

  My faithful sidekick (Rocky the Golden Retriever), and our evening game of fetch has become a battle over me tossing, and receiving in return a series of smug stares from ‘stinky girl’. As long as Mommy’s within eyeshot of her little princess, it’s not her fault—she’s little and couldn’t help it. 

 

  Everything is hers, and I concede this atrocity so the little she-demon won’t emit those choppy gurgles passed off as—don’t make me mad in front of my mommy—excuses for barking.  Dinner time finds tinker bell perched gaily on Mommy’s knee while my dog is confined to a dark corner. And should the slightest morsel of food fall in Rocky’s direction, he gets mauled and she gets the food. 

 

  Rocky hasn’t caught the gist of this situation and each time the ankle-biting fiend attacks; he looks to me with those dejected gold eyes. Her treats are little—like her—and my dog has zero entitlement to her gracious ruler’s snacks. I once tried to restrain the Tasmanian horror while feeding Rocky a handful of her treats as revenge; she chomped two fingers to nubs and ate my lower lip. Since this vicious episode, both Rocky and I steer clear of her damned treats.

 

  No one is entrusted with her care because she goes every where with us…and why not? If it’s too hot outside, she’ll enjoy an air conditioned nap (on Mommy’s lap) while I brave sun stroke. If it’s too cold she’ll press her nose against the window from her climate controlled interior, and then grin hellishly as she smears snot across the clean glass.

 

  I believe a woman began this crusade against our hearty breeds’ years ago, and before the Rosie O’Donnell disciples burn their anti-NRA bras, I said a woman—not all women.

 

  Poodles used to be large dogs, still ugly with their hedge in front of a mobile home hair cut, but big dogs nonetheless. Once upon a time, a well respected breeder let his wife connive him into allowing the teeny dogs to make teeny puppies. This communion began miniatures, and miniatures dropped the dimension to toy sized, and now they have the mutated fad of teacup pooches. How would Hee-Haw have looked with a teacup Chihuahua lounging on the porch instead of Ole Blue the faithful bloodhound? Junior would have eaten that critter with possum gravy before the camera’s started recording.

 

Uncle Buck

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