Savage Dogs

I feel about dogs the way most people feel about children — I love mine; I don’t give a flying fuck about yours.

Until recently, dogs were a part of my life. But after the last dog died, the Boy went to college and I moved to Tucson. So the Bear and I only spend weekends together.

Dogs can be a shit ton of work (or should I say “shit baggie”). It’s pretty easy with 2 people; kind of a pain with just 1. And we are on the least painful path.

But the goddamn Savages (my in-laws) are making sure dogs won’t go extinct.

If you have more dogs in your house than people, you are fucking up god’s plan for man’s domination over the earth. Because those dogs are ruling that place. You might as well get a fucking cat.

My sister-in-law and her husband in Mesa have had 4 dogs and 3 people in one house for what feels like the last 2 decades. Every time a dog dies, they replace it with two just like it. Their 30-something douchebag millennial daughter lives with them and has her own “dog.”

Having dinner over there is like going to the pound. There’s fur and growling everywhere and you can’t move across the room without stepping on a tail.

When they stop barking and jumping up to sniff your balls, their pathetic pooches sit in front of you and stare with their Sarah McLaughlin eyes. The “parents” spend the dessert portion of the meal begging you to take “just one.” And they don’t mean one fucking cookie — they mean one fucking dog.

One of their dogs is always a hyperactive Jack Russell terror with attention deficit disorder who refuses to take his puppy prozac.

One crazy ass little shit dies, and they get another and give it a similar name like Eddie, or Billie or Bobbie. I can’t remember which one died and I start mumbling the entire list “Eddie… Billie… Bobbie…” to get the latest fucking little rat to jump off my lap.

Speaking of rats, the other Savage sister has “french bulldogs”. I think they have 3. Because they have 3 people in the house including a 30-something douchebag millennial daughter who has her own “dog”. Beginning to see a patterns with the Savages? (I am).

These fucking bug-eyed, ugly useless little shits should have gone extinct long ago. Real dogs have got to be at least 35 pounds. These little fucking “frenchy’s” are just about the size of a football.

Every time I see one of these little rat dogs, I have this powerful urge to pick it up and punt it over the fence. Those flat faces are constantly drooling and their bugged out Marty Feldman eyes always makes me think they have a thyroid condition.

My Savage brother-in-law is a big tough man, former Army MP and now a prison guard. He’s loud and when I see him he is always drinking and smiling. I guarantee he could kick your ass in a heartbeat.

I don’t even know what kind of an emasculating mini-mutt his family had, but when the big Savage brought it over in one arm, all you saw were bushy eyebrows and a tail. “Groucho” could fit in a purse.

He wasn’t even big enough to punt. I always had the urge to just flick him off my leg like an errant moth.

On the exact other side of the scale, when the Bear’s uncle Charlie was in his 80’s, he got suckered into taking on a 10-pound puppy. Within a year that dog gained 100 pounds.

I wasn’t sure if he was walking it or riding it, but Charlie easily outlived that dog and he is still in great shape in his 90’s.

I’m not up for a pony/dog like Charlie’s, but maybe when I retire, I’ll get myself a real dog and show these goddamn Savages how it’s done.

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