Why my dogs are giant assholes- and I never want it any other way.

Every morning usually starts the same. I sleepily trudge down the stairs hoping I don’t trip and fall to my death as i’m usually blind- too lazy to have looked for my glasses before getting up. As I make my way down the 2nd half of  the stairs I usually hear the stirring in the kitchen as Cheyenne gets up and Rodeo gets all wound up at the thought of me entering the kitchen.

I mean, I might get a COOKIE or FOOD or SOMETHING edible. I also have to PEE.  LET ME SCRATCH THE DOOR- SHE LOVES THAT.

No, Rodeo. I don’t love that.

Ewe is awake too and has found a ball. He’s squeaking what’s left of the squeaker. Or shaking his turkey stuffed toy around that’s missing a leg and has a chunk taken out of it’s neck. I hear it slam against his face as he shakes it and growls into it. I imagine the cloud of “turkey fuzz” as we have begun to call it floating around his head shaken loose from the nearly decapitated stuffed turkey. Adding more mess to my already very hairy kitchen floor.

Never again will I buy another one of those toys. It’s officially banned for life.

I’m still counting stairs hoping not to trip.

There are some things I fight over with my dogs, and there are other things where I just give up because.. well because they’re Huskies.

I open the door to Cheyenne stretching and howling a “good f&*^ing morning, bitch. I need to pee.” She has a foul mouth. And can be rather rude at times.

Rodeo has again devised a new way to greet me with a slick way of hitting where he pretends to stretch but he hits you in the leg.

“We don’t hit, Rodeo”

Rodeo has this new obsession with hitting. He’s like a horrible little toddler that’s forever stuck in the same phase of hitting. I have caught myself constantly reprimanding him with a “WE DON’T HIT, RODEO” but he doesn’t give a shit. He still hits.

And then he has been asked to step back away from the door jamb as “You don’t need to be a Bull, Rodeo”

I absentmindedly wonder why this dog is the death of me. And then I remember he’s a Husky. And he’s a Reddog.

This started out as something a lot different. A general bitching diatribe of how I cannot stand Rodeo some days (read: most days) and how Cheyenne can be so GOOD and then just BAM she takes off after the idiot herding dog as they fly across the street after ‘something’ that Ewetard was barking at 20 minutes ago. Or Ewe- and how much he makes me want to just in general scream and send him off in a UPS box back to the Aussietard factory.

But then life happened. And I was smacked with a reminder of sad reality.

A Husky family member passed away this past week. Her life would have “most likely” been shorted by her hydrocephalus… but it didn’t take away the pain that shook our whole Husky community when she suddenly passed away due to surgery complications. Which were completely unrelated to her medical condition. And more related to the fact that she was a fucking Husky. And liked to eat shit she wasn’t supposed to.

I was then thrown back into the memory of wishing I could hear Mickeys horribly obnoxious peeping just one more time. How I would give anything to see him just be a jerk. Just one more time. And then I thought about a life without a Reddog that hits. Or Ewe that barks the moment he is somewhat excited and immediately seeks out a ball to squeak and take out his frustrations on. Or a day without doing a voice-over translations of Cheyenne’s howls, woo’s and general looks of i-hate-you and fuck-my-life.

And at those thoughts- I cried.

No- fuck that. Let’s be real. I bawled.

I hope everyone has the chance to be blessed with a dog that incessantly peeps, or rings their potty bells for funzies, or smacks you in the face, or barks for no reason, or is just otherwise a crazy asshat jerk face dog. I never again want a “normal” dog. I want idiosyncrasies. I want weirdos. I want freak dumpy dogs. I want them to dig themselves into my heart so deep I can never hear the ring of a bell or the incredibly obnoxious over-squeak of a ball without being throw right back into those moments.

These dogs dig holes (both literal and figurative) really deep and really fast into our hearts. And the bigger the pain in the ass they are- the bigger the hole. And the harder it becomes to patch- let alone fill. The harder to heal. Losing Mickey was so hard because of how much he drove me nuts at times. Because of how much we worked to be such a good team. Because of how well he could push my buttons. Because of how many tears I shed on his furry fuzzy neck bitching about all my idiotic human complaints.

So this is a PSA, folks: hug your shit head dogs. The bigger the shit head- the bigger the hug. Get on the floor with them. Love on them. Blow fart noises on their belly, they love that (Cheyenne- i’m coming for you, bitch.) And while you’re in the middle of i’m-about-to-lose-my-shit or as you’re stuffing your herding dog in a Flat rate box… Remember that there will be one day that they won’t be there. You can’t prevent that. So don’t waste the time that you have with them today being angry or annoyed with them or otherwise not loving the shit out of them.

Love them. Love your asshole dogs.