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Santa Maria Sun / Humor

The following article was posted on June 29th, 2016, in the Santa Maria Sun - Volume 17, Issue 17 [ Submit a Story ]
The following articles were printed from Santa Maria Sun [santamariasun.com] - Volume 17, Issue 17

Dog is my copilot

Krider and his canine know how to have a good time

By ROB KRIDER

My wife treats our dog like it’s a human being, a short furry human being who speaks the King’s English. My wife has in-depth conversations with the dog, and I’ve even heard her ask the dog metaphorical questions. The dog, being a dog, of course, never responds to any of these inquiries. The dog simply sits underneath my wife in the kitchen hoping she will accidentally drop some food, some human food—the good stuff.

My wife “accidentally” drops a lot of human food in the kitchen now that we own a doggy. These accidental drops are adding quite a bit of pounds to our little pooch. These added pounds concern me, because we don’t have canine medical insurance, and I don’t think I can afford cash payments to treat doggy diabetes. Regardless of my dietary concerns for our dog, my wife continues to “accidentally” feed the dog. 

She also asks our dog if it wants the hallway light left on at night so it can walk to the kitchen for a late night snack because, “Everybody likes a fourth meal.”

I treat the dog like a dog. I understand the dog doesn’t speak English. It only speaks belly rubs. When I come home from work, I don’t ask the dog how its day was. I already know what the dog did all day. It ate food, pooped in the backyard, barked at the mailman, barked at the gardener, barked at the pest control guy, licked its ass, and then took a nap. Eventually, after its extremely busy schedule, the dog sat by the front door waiting for me to get home, hoping I would accidentally drop some food. 

The difference between my wife and me is when I drop food it is truly accidental. It turns out I’m just a sloppy eater. The dog knows this about me and seats herself strategically below me during every meal. It doesn’t make me feel like the dog loves me; it makes me feel insecure about my ability not to let food roll down my shirt. I’m rethinking eating out in public.

There is no question, obviously my wife loves our dog, and for that reason, any time I’m about to take our little dog out for a walk I get a long list of dos and don’ts because in my wife’s opinion I can’t be trusted with the safety of our pet. “Don’t let her feet get too hot on the sidewalk,” or “Don’t let her off the leash, a car could hit her,” and “Take some bottled water, don’t let her drink any water from the gutter.” I successfully raised two kids without letting either of them drink out of the gutter or get hit by a car. I think I can handle safely walking the dog around the block. And since the dog spends most of the day licking her own butt, I think she can digest a little gutter water without any issue.

As much as it irks me when my wife continues to give me a list of how to properly take care of “her” dog, not “our” dog, admittedly, on occasion I have done things which have led to “her” dog being in some unfortunate predicaments. Like the time I tried to let the dog ride in my bicycle basket and then the dog jumped out of the basket and was hanging from the leash by her neck at 15 mph. That wasn’t awesome. My wife saw the whole thing and hasn’t let me forget it since. The dog turned out fine, but since then she barks at bicycles any time one rides by. It could just be a coincidence.

Recently, I convinced my wife to let me take the dog camping in our RV. My wife wasn’t going on the trip, so she was worried about the safety of “her” dog. After a lot of lectures on dog safety, more warnings, rules, and admonitions, I was allowed to take the dog with me. 

During the camping trip, my daughter, the dog, and I hung out while I cooked some good old-fashioned Santa Maria-style barbecue tri-tip. I probably cooked about 10 pounds of tri-tip, spreading the tasty barbecue smoke around the campground. The meat smelled so good in fact, a gentleman camping nearby asked me if I wanted to trade some of his local craft beer for some of my barbecued meat. Of course I wanted to do that—beer, barbecue, and new friends: camping doesn’t get any better than that.

I grabbed some meat for my neighbor and headed next door. I left the dog inside the RV, just for a minute. I also left a foil tray with the rest of the cooked tri-tip on the table of the RV, just for a minute. An hour and three craft beers later I headed back to my RV to use the bathroom. That was when I found the dog sitting on the ground looking very guilty. I glanced at the table and saw ALL of the meat was gone, 10 pounds of tri-tip devoured by a 20-pound lap dog.

The dog looked bloated and unhappy. This wasn’t good. I knew my wife, whom I love, was going to blame me for the whole thing (rightfully so). Then I remembered, the dog doesn’t speak English, therefore the dog couldn’t tell my wife what happened. It would be our little secret. Nobody would know and the only real tragedy of the incident was the fact that there was no more tri-tip to eat or trade beer for.

Then Karma stopped by my campsite. Karma came in the form of explosive doggy diarrhea all over the inside of the RV. The floor, the walls, the side of the refrigerator, nothing was safe. Camping trips are supposed to be all about relaxing and taking it easy. There is nothing relaxing about cleaning up 10 pounds of canine diarrhea, especially when you’re drunk and hungry. While I was busy carefully wiping down every inch of the RV so my wife wouldn’t find out anything happened, my daughter was busy texting her mom to tell her how I made “their” dog sick when I let it eat 10 pounds of tri-tip. Busted. 

No animals were harmed in this story; however, three rolls of paper towels lost their lives. You can read more from Rob Krider or contact him at robkrider.com.




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Should the proposed aquifer exemption in Cat Canyon be approved?

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