My brain is not front and centre today. Well, since Monday really. I am not sure if it's because I had two weeks off and was sick the whole time and therefore didn't really have to think about anything, but it has carried over to this week at work as well. I was kind of excited to get back into a routine on Monday morning, and then I walked through the doors and remembered; work is not exciting. In any way, shape, or form. So I have been struggling all week to actually work, only I keep getting distracted by the internets. Oops. Good thing my boss is a scatterbrain these days or I might be in for a good old Trinidadian smack down. Scarier than you can imagine.
So Dave and I got into a conversation earlier this week about dog breath. Let me tell you how this went down:
I had just eaten some trail mix that had chocolate chips thrown in it. I went to give Dave a kiss and he told me that I had 'chocolate dog breath'. God I love him. So after I had proceeded to breath in his face as much as humanly possible, and I must say I gave my lungs a good workout, the maniacal laughter eventually died down to silence. And Dave punctuated it with a sigh and a "I hate dog breath", in the most pathetic, almost wistful way possible.
This reminded me of my best friend's old dog, Brewsky. Yes, Brewsky. The man who named this dog was a 30-something, corvette driving, drum playing bar band kind of guy. His name was Jerry and he sported a handlebar moustache. Oh wait! That's called a hipster these days!
Brewsky thought he was the leader of the pack. He pretty much believed that he had the run of the house. So when Brewsky wanted a snack, he never held back. He also smooshed beer cans off his forehead, he was that kind of dog. Food could never be left on the counter because he would get it. Full heads of lettuce, casseroles of lasagna, sometimes even some dirty underwear or a used feminine hygiene product or two.
But on the day that he decided to give me some love, with his paws up on my knees, smiling in my face with his tongue lolling out, it took a while for the smell coming out of his mouth to register in my brain. It was THAT BAD. It smelled like he had cleaned every dog's bum in a 100 kilometre radius. No, a 500 kilometre radius. My synapses shut down from the stench, and everything happened in slow motion after that. I whipped my head around to make sure he wasn't actually the walking dead because that's the only way that kind of smell would make sense. Staring at him in horror is when I noticed the thin line of white crust covering the fine hairs all around his mouth. I yelled for Ciara to please come and save me from the death that was descending on me, and once he was taken away from me I was able to think a little clearer.
I let Ciara know that my major organs were shutting down, and she went to the kitchen to see if he had gotten into anything. She came back into the room carrying a family-sized tub of cream cheese. An EMPTY family-sized container of cream cheese.
Own a dog and want to get your significant other back in the worst way possible? Feed the dog some cream cheese and stand back in a dark corner to watch. You will see them wince in pain, and then die a little bit inside. And you will be thinking, "Excellent".
IT'S THAT BAD.
