My Job-Related Life Is Far Too Depressing to Write About, So Here’s a Post About My Dog.

This is my dog.

She is, beyond question, the cutest mentally deficient animal on the planet. I’d imagine her life is similar to that of Miss South Carolina, in that they’re both pretty enough for most people to overlook the fact that the lone thought zipping about inside their skulls is “WHY ISN’T SOMEONE PETTING ME??”

Let me rewind. Back in November of last year, something happened at my house. It was either an attempted break-in/double homicide, or a very confused and disoriented anti-leaf activist who merely wanted to alert us to the presence of leaves on our sidewalk…at midnight, in November, in the pouring freezing rain. So I decided to get a big dog.

What’s better than a big dog for protection? A morbidly obese dog! Duh.

So, a couple of months later, we adopted Asta.* She is the worst defense animal in the long and sordid history of man’s interactions with beast.

That is Asta’s angry face. She makes her angry face and barks intimidatingly any time our house is in danger, such as when a delivery person approaches, someone walks by an open window, our neighbors talk loudly, or someone on the street farts.

However, whenever anything happens that might clue a dog in to the fact that their house is being attacked — like, for instance, our seven-foot-tall friend peeking in through the window in our door — she flees to the bathroom and hides behind the toilet until she is assured by us that the danger is over and the scary tall person was just here to bring beer and scratch her head.

In Asta’s eyes, the most egregious sin that can be committed by man is the cessation of head scratches. I’m pretty sure crazy-leaf-man could come back, murder Nick and me in a gruesome fashion while declaring “I REALLY HOPE THERE ISN’T A 97-POUND DOG IN THIS HOUSE BECAUSE THAT WOULD BE SUFFICIENTLY SCARY TO MAKE ME STOP MURDERING THESE PEOPLE” and she woud watch the whole thing from a safe distance and then headbutt our lifeless, mangled corpses while wondering why the fuck we would stop scratching her head.


So, she’s not really serving her guard-dog functions, inasmuch as I’ve had better guard-fish, but she is in essence me in dog form. Allow me to delineate:

1. We are both fat and hairy.
2. After running for more than half a block, we are both ready to collapse in the sidewalk and wait for a neighbor to call 911.
3. We both like cookies. A lot. Also bread. If you leave either of those items on our coffee table, it is very likely that one of us will eat it without considering the possibilities of poison that would naturally arise from someone from the internet leaving food items on our coffee table.
4. We both like to sleep between 12-16 hours a day.

I have to admit, she seems to get much more pleasure from chewing things and pooping than I do. And I haven’t managed to successfully teach her to knit. Yet.

So that’s my dog. Maybe someday soon I’ll have something employment-related that I can write about without realizing on proofread that I should probably commit hara-kiri to save my family the shame of having spawned such a stupendous failure. In the meantime, I have continued to harass the conference center people to no avail. I am contemplating either donating plasma to pay my student loan bills or going back to school to become an astrophysicist.** I’ll let you know how it works out either way.

*I named her after an awesome dog from a great movie, but because apparently no one watches movies from 80 years ago, everyone thinks I’m insane and no one knows how to pronounce her name. Hint: It starts with “ass.”
**Because astrophysicists make the big bucks.***
***What the fuck do astrophysicists do, exactly? For all I know, I’m qualified.

    • Aj
    • April 16th, 2010

    I think one of the things you should add to your 4/15 list is: Change your name to Nora. Most people still wouldn’t get it, but wouldn’t it be cool?

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