WD James Ink

I've had several people tell me Damnit is a good dog but just bored- she needs a friend. Actually, she has one. We now have a Lab-shepherd mix alternately named "You little shit, get the hell out of the garbage now!" or, 'Oh for the love of ... kids, don't tell your mother what the puppy ate!" We think, someday, he might grow into "Grossy," after Lt. Col. (Ret.) and author, Dave Grossman, of Wolves, Sheep and Sheepdogs" fame. If he makes it that far.

Miranda named the dog Grossy. Margie and I take the blame for the other names, however well-earned. Grossy was pretty much a rescue, coming from a farm of sorts. Long story, sad story. He's part of the family now.

I hesitated to mention Grossy before because labs are their own worst enemy until about age two. Grossy is about four months now, give or take a week or two. His actual birthdate is lost in a fog of Budweiser- Part of the long story.

As I was saying, Labs are their own worst enemies. So far, Grossy has eaten Margie's knitting (a death sentence in thirteen middle eastern countries and our living room), a lamp cord (of course, plugged in- what fun and challenge is there if it's not energized?) and one-third of my formerly-complete Kathy Reichs (Think "Bones") book collection (a death penalty in the remaining Middle East countries, anywhere I am and our living room).

Add to the list just about every paper towel thrown in the trash and a step. Yes, a step. The puppy ate a step, served from the landing below, at perfect level for gnawing. The boy also has an appetite for socks. From what I've been told, that's the shepherd in him. One friend told me her shepherd actually opens dresser drawers to get the tasty nuggets.Grossy just swipes 'em out of laundry baskets, shoes, dirty laundry- no sock is sacred- even the ones Margie knits...Can that woman yell!

Last night, I cut the grass at the homestead. The little bugger (all 70+/-  pounds) tried to sneak up on the lawn mower. Luckily, I saw that train wreck coming and shut down the mower. I thought I was either going to have a heart attack or split a gut laughing. The fleabag, on the other hand, wanted to play. Or, he wanted to go into the air-conditioned house. If that's the case, he got his wish.  Maybe he's not as much of a dumbass as I thought.

So, Margie has spared Grossy countless times. I've spared him countless times. The spiritual karma that binds this world just laughs at his foibles and looks the other way.

Damnit, on the other hand, does not forgive and is currently planning revenge on me, as well as her new playmate. Damnit hates me for getting her a friend. Apparently a six year-old lab and a lab puppy have vastly different ideas about fun and napping. If cats had nine lives, this dog is all cat.

Grossy hasn't endeared himself to Damnit at all. He got in trouble for trying to eat a shirt. Damned if he didn't drape the shirt over Damnit when he heard Margie on her way to find out why Miranda had suddenly taken up cursing. A little blame goes a long way, apparently.

Speaking of Miranda, the alleged "owner" of said innocent little ball of hell, despite the fact that Mom and Dad feed, clean up after and pay for the twelve tons of dog food a week consumed by baby Huey, the girl can run.

Apparently, a white streak of puppy clutching the undergarments of a fourteen year-old is more encouragement to run than the bang of a starter pistol. More cursing as Grossy led Miranda on a spirited tour of the front yard. Once again Grossy's life was spared, pending any video of the 300 meter dash appearing on YouTube.

As I said in the beginning, I was hesitant about mentioning Grossy because I was worried he'd do himself in. But the more I think about it, I had to write this entry to guarantee his safety!

We're four months into a two year wait until the traditional Lab "calm down." Margie is buying knitting needles by the box, Miranda is hiding her underwear, all my socks have puppy tooth holes in 'em and poor Sunshine lives in fear of Grossy getting her beloved Pink Bear. If something happens to this dog, it won't be by accident. We'll be playing "Clue" to figure it out.

"It was Miranda in the living room with a pair of ripped, striped panties!"
"No, it was Margie in the kitchen with the knitting needles"
"No! It was Sunshine but she got her bear's arm back. I think the girl's gonna be a surgeon!"

Somehow, our new guy will make it to the safety of two years old. Maybe. Unless Damnit takes him for a walk in the woods and forgets to bring him home.

Did I mention he's getting snipped shortly? Hmm, revenge disguised as a neutering. Sounds fair!