Bubba, with whom I sleep.

November 12th, 2008 marks roughly the four millionth consecutive day where “1. Find My Calling” remains untouched on my inner mental “To Do” list. It’s probably time to give serious consideration to replacing it with something more manageable, like “Clean the carpet.”

I wish that were a true ‘random’ hypothetical. The truth is that while it isn’t the only thing that should do today, it is the only thing that will get done. That, and write this. Last night I had a really great chat with an older guy (60s? 70s?) who said (among other things) that he admired one of his writers because they wrote about nothing. I realized “Wait. I can SO write about nothing. Totally.” In my best inner valley-girl voice, so here I am.

My girlfriend has a dog.

This fact is important for the rest of the story, or else you’ll wonder why there is pee all over the carpet, and given that the only other characters are me and my girlfriend, you might think less of us if I neglect to mention that she has a dog, so, consider it mentioned.

(There was no easy segue from “inner valley-girl voice.”)

I hesitate when I call it a dog. It’s a dog in so much as it has all the primary characteristics of the canine family, but for all practical purposes it is a bit closer to a cross between a gerbil, and a very small cat. It’s a Chihuahua and it’s (his) name is Bubba Cleatus.

I didn’t name it/him that. My girlfriend did.

This is the same ‘joke’ that I trot out every single time someone says “OOHHHMYGOD HE’S SO CUTE WHAT’S HIS NAME” which is oddly enough every single time I leave the apartment to walk the dog, which is (as you will soon see) apparently not enough for it. Him. Bubba.They ask. I say his name. They ask again, as if they were mistaken, and I repeat myself, indicating that they were very much not mistaken, and yes they heard correctly. They look at me as if there is something wrong (In addition to a grown man having a dog that resembles (with all flattery) vermin) so I bring out my joke, I pretend it’s new and they laugh. Or they pretend to.

So. My girlfriend’s dog, Bubba.

Bubba and I get along really really well, when she’s not around. We play, joke, reminisce, you know, the kind of thing you do when you’re just chillin with your dog, so to speak.

When she (or SHE, as I am SURE she is capitalized in Bubba’s inner monologue (“like TOTALLY capitalized” – mine)) is around, that friendship is abandoned, the same way the camaraderie that comes with ordering and sharing a pizza vanishes when both parties, with a slice in their hand, realize that there is only one slice left in the box. ( Can I finish this piece before they finish theirs? Damn I wish I had some anorexic friends)

It’s taken me awhile to come to terms with it, but Bubba’s simple appreciation of my GF has made me think that maybe my appreciation isn’t that much more evolved. When she comes home, he gets ecstatically happy. All he really wants to do is play with her, be petted, and lick her face.

It makes me self conscious. The venn diagram of my hopes and dreams overlaps with something that s@#ts in bushes

“Am I no better than a Chihuahua? (“Like, that sucks.” Says my inner valley girl) but then I remember that I occasionally cook, and make witty jokes, and Bubba for all of his tricks (of which there are two) can’t do either. Suck on that, Chihuahua.(Speaking of “suck on that, Chihuahua”, Bubba has a couple of tricks that I can’t do, at all, now that I think about it. Some which might put my relationship in jeopardy but that’s neither here nor there nor at all appropriate. I mean really, I can’t roll over when she says “bang bang.” What were you thinking about, perv?)

Bedtime is the worst. It unfolds like this.

1. We get in bed.
2. I scoot closer to my significant other.
2. Bubba just crawls in bed between us.
2a. I hate a small helpless animal.
3. She (SHE) coos “OH MY GOD ISN’T HE THE CUTEST!?”
4. Bubba looks back at me, gloating.

For a moment I consider throwing my name in the “COMPETITION FOR THE CUTEST” consideration, I mean Black People are winnin’ like crazy in polls this year but I think better of it. Why push our luck? Plus I don’t need that sort of ego assault right before I fall asleep.

I want to scream “NO HE ISN’T! I AM I AM!” or at the very least point out “YOU SAW HIM YESTERDAY! HAVEN’T YOU GOTTEN USED TO HIM YET?! I COOKED GNOCCI TONIGHT! WITHOUT A RECIPE! AND I NEVER EVER LICK MYSELF!” but it doesn’t seem the time or the place. I don’t think that conversation ever results in the dog being thrown out of bed. So I just wait til she falls asleep, and then I throw relocate him.

( It’s just a Chihuahua, I’m more than strong enough. (“like, totally.”))

We’re in Oregon, which means it is wet, rainy, and cold, which means that being outside is faaaar far below finding my personal calling in life as far as priorities go. The first few days of my tenure, I decided that in the new office of President-Elect Phil, Chihuahua-Elect Bubba would be receiving less frequent walks.

In addition to the cold, Bubba is just a real pain in the ass when it comes to using the bathroom. Think of your closest (neediest) friend. Okay, now imagine what your friendship would be like if every time they wanted to vacate their bowels, you had to go with them? And then instead of bee-lining for the restroom, she or he just…roamed around outside for about ten minutes, sniffing your furniture, sniffing your carpet, sniffing other friends (and strangers) in the crotch and THEN went to the bathroom?

Yes, it’s a bit of a stretch but this is life with a dog. Bubba needs to go, but first he needs to make me wander. Make me suffer.

Three times a day became two times a day. Two times became one. Then one day one living room became one fire hydrant.

(I realize that fire hydrants are the uber cliché of dog urine, but Bubba obviously is not a poetry groundbreaker because he luuurrves pissin on ‘em. I eat chicken and watermelon though so I don’t judge. )

I like to think that he did this, this pee extravaganza, peeganza, while I was asleep, and therefore unaware of his plight, but if you listen to her tell it, you’d think he was pawing at the door frantically, barking, crying (“Crying? Really? Aren’t you taking this a bit far baby?” I think to myself) as if the room was on fire, before he shamedfacedly peed in the corner.

One afternoon the girl and I decide to sit on the floor and make vision boards. Guys, in case you don’t know what a vision board is, it’s because your relationship hasn’t passed the point where you occasionally leave your masculinity outside the door (“Ew, it’s stinky! Let it dry out!”) and talk about things like Oprah and Vision Boards. You will, one day.

The basic idea behind a vision board is one culled from 3rd grade arts and crafts mixed with “The Secret”. You open a bunch of magazines, and cut out a bunch of pictures of stuff you want, and stick ‘em to a board, with a picture of you in the middle. The theory is that by looking at this, you’ll attract the things you want and… Oh I can’t explain this without you sounding like I have an honest-to-God vagina, but it actually is sort of fun in a “Man should I really cut out all these models in front of her?” kind of way.

At any rate, we’re on the floor. Cutting. Pasting. My eyes are watering. Man, I am really moved by this vision board. Maybe I –do- have a vagina? , and then I realize that unless my newfound vagina reeks of dog-urine, it’s probably something else that’s making my eyes burn. Oh right. Bubba peed on the carpet.

Well, now the inside smells like outside, and fair’s fair, since I made this mess (well, co-signed on it) I volunteer to clean it up. I rent a carpet cleaner. One of those big vacuum sucky-dealies. I move all of the furniture, and I steam clean while Alycia is in class. Bubba sits in the corner and laughs at me. For two hours. Finally I get down on my hands and knees and check the trouble spots and…

Every single one of them reeks of dog urine. W. T. F?

Google.

Turns out Dog Urine is strong. Real strong. Like, “fuck your shampoo” strong.

I keep googling, and find out that there’s some substance called “Nature’s Miracle” which has enzymes an’ stuff, which eat the pee or whatever it is enzymes do, so the next day I rush out to the store to buy a couple gallons of miracle.

Mini Pet Mart is about 300 yards from the apartment, and they sell about 15 variations of miracles, and I look at every single bottle before I realize I have no idea what the variations are, so I grab a medium sized bottle. If it’s really a miracle, you’d think they would need to switch it up.

The lady in the store looks over at me, her face is easy enough to read: “You are only buying that because you are a bad pet owner, and forced your little friend to pee inside. I hope you rot in hell, I only carry that stuff because I have to.”My check card has the name of my company on it, and my name, smaller, beneath it. Whenever I pay with it, people frequently give me a look that I (choose to?) interpret as “You stole this, didn’t you, darkie?” It’s suspicious, because I’ve been told that while I look like I might own a company, that company might sell weed. I always wonder that people think I would steal a check card to buy dumb s@#t like urine remover.

[Weird fun fact: Mini-Pet Mart sells about a MILLION pet accessories and cigarettes. An amazing display of cigarettes. No, I don’t understand it, either.]

I get home. I re-shampoo using the enzymes. And now I wait, while they eat Bubba’s pee.

This is what I did today, November 12th, 2008.

Tagging: People that know Bubba Cleatus.

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