Apr. 9th, 2011

I have written before about my talking dogs but I haven't done so for a while. My good boy Mojo passed away last year and I didn't feel like writing about my dogs at the time. But life goes on, and the remaining dogs are well (if elderly), and they continue to talk and cause trouble. Example: last night.

As a reminder, I have three dogs. The eldest is Madison; she is a stately old Great Pyrenees, exceedingly standoffish and ladylike, who talks like Zsa Zsa Gabor. Then there's Sweet Pea, who is some kind of a golden retriever mix; he considers himself dashing but he isn't very bright and may be gay, and he talks like Errol Flynn. And finally there's Belle. She's a pit mixed with a yellow lab, is a rescue dog, is beating the pants off cancer, and has a serious attitude problem. She talks like a rode hard, put up wet truck stop waitress with a three-pack-a-day problem. I love all three dogs but, not to put too fine a point on it, they're trouble.

Last night I woke up and needed to pee. The room was extremely dark. Now, the dogs are rather spoiled, and they're indoor dwellers, which means they sleep in the house with us. They're also huge and like to sprawl on the floor. I half sat up in the bed.

"Okay, you guys," I whispered, not wanting to wake Bonnie up. "I'm getting up to go to the bathroom. Everybody sound off where you are so I don't step on you." None of the dogs answered, but there was a muffled tittering from somewhere in the room. I rolled my eyes.

"Oh, Christ," I muttered. "Please tell me we're not going to play the landmines game again." Their silence gave me my answer. We were going to play the game where I try to avoid stepping on dogs.
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