Thursday, May 11, 2006

Posts about dogs or meals do not belong in a poker blog. Dugglebogey (who, by the way, writes a great poker blog) said something to that effect a ways back. It flashes through my head nearly every time I sit to do a post. He’s right.

Nevertheless, here I sit posting to a poker blog, talking about everything but. I just can’t help it.

In Wichita we had a narrow yard that wrapped around both sides and the back. Going out on the back deck only provided view of one side and the back portion. The other side was completely obscured.

It was only a short time after we got Stella (go ahead Streetcar fans, I’ll give you time to say it) that Rachel and I noticed the fact that her breath smelled like shit. All the time. Like real, actual shit. We couldn’t figure out why the breath of one Schnauzer would be okay while the other had oral odors reminiscent of a feed lot. Many Eucalyptus-infused dog biscuits over the course of too many weeks and still, her breath continued to smell like toxic butt-waste. We finally shrugged and gave up, choosing, like parents with a retarded (are we still allowed use that word?) child, to still love our little brown big stupid dog.

The yard at our house in Phoenix is quite different. By different, I mean I can see the entire yard. Not being familiar enough with Phoenix when we came, we are renting a place to give us plenty of time to find something that we’d like to buy (and, it seems, comfortably afford). This means no more smoking in the house, which is actually better because of the decrease in smoking and the increase in fresh house scent. The combination of these two things revealed something, well, two things, actually.

One. Our little stupid brown dog is a hybrid fecofeliac. She doesn’t give a shit about her own, but she definitely has a thing for the white dog’s brown product. What a horrifying site to see (for the first time) her prance after Simon, attempting a modified Hot Karl.

Two. We are really not very smart people sometimes. How did we not figure that out on our own?

The last four weeks have been a trying campaign. The War on Consuming Poop. An intervention for the ages. Constant surveillance, some yelling, and even the occasional handful of gravel has been chucked in her direction. Unlike the War on Drugs, Terrorism, Poverty, Poor Taste, and a litany of others, this war is thus far a success.

Tonight I had the thought that it would be funny to add a “One Month Sober” chip to Stella’s collar. Poop free for four weeks. That’s what I could say when people asked about it, which would only add to the fun.

Congrats, Stella. It must have been difficult to give up all of that delicious shit. We thank you.