dogs

"DOG!"

"Time to buy you more underwear?"

"Yeah."

Oh, we had such high hopes for today.

My entire company (yes, that would be Mike, Chris and I), along with Kris, my mom and a couple friends were journeying out to see SW3: Revenge of the Sith this morning. We went to see the 9:10 showing, which is perfect: too early for the casual movie-goer, too late for the corporate theatre buyout and way too late for the passionate Star Wars viewer, who already saw the movie the at midnight the night before.

After the show, on the way to Apple to drop Mike off so that he could pick up the family car (his Jeep having dropped dead yesterday), I noticed I was having difficulty reading street signs.

Sigh. Migraine number two of the year began this morning. Which has me completely puzzled, as I've been sleeping really well, eating right, exercising regularly, and I'm not (currently) menstruating. As far as I can tell, I haven't eaten any aspartame, sulfites or other triggers. I did have four sips of Doyle's Coke at the show.

But still.

When we arrived home, I wandered towards the bedroom, to hear a commotion in the kitchen. Wandering back, I had just enough vision to see the kitchen floor covered in blood, little doggie footprints all over the place.

Turns out, Annie really, really wanted the dishes of last night's communal dinner, and pulled a bag of dishes from the countertop onto the floor, breaking one as it did. She then cut herself on one of them, and bled all over the floor.

Stupid dog.

Leaving the mess to Kris, I went to sleep, in hopes of avoiding the worst of the pain and blindless.

I woke up to Mom expressing concern to Doyle about Bella, who seemed to be stressed. I called out to Kris, who rushed into the kitchen to comfort Bella in yet another seizure. I followed him into the kitchen, to discover, sure, Bella in a seizure, but also the kitchen in the most beautiful state of cleanliness!

Mom spent the whole 5 hours of my sleeping agony cleaning my kitchen. And it was gorgeous! She threw out all the stuff I didn't need, organized what I did need, put away everything that needed putting away, and cleaned everything else. It was amazing.

Later in the evening, after Cold Stone, Mom commented, "There are easier ways to get your kitchen cleaned."

... that strawberry might last longer if you chewed it.

Only eight more years to go. Eight more years. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Eight.

I am so tired of:

• the barking
• the whining
• getting pushed out of bed by a dog
• being unable to have sex in my own bed because there's a dog between the two of us
• the licking sounds (there's nothing in your crotch, dog!)
• the open wound on the leg
• the whining
• the hovering whenever I'm in the kitchen
• the staring while I'm sitting in the bathroom
• butt wipes on my brand spanking new rug
• being unable to head out of town on a whim because we have to find someone to take care of them
• imposing on friends to take care of them
• the whining
• the upturned trashcans
• the $400 a month dog food bills
• the emergency room runs
• the $300 a month veterinary bills
• finding dog hairs in my underwear
• finding dogs eating my underwear

I know Kris loves these dogs, but they are driving me insane. He's not home with these monsters 22 hours a day. Dog, shut the fuck up!