I hate dogs and I shall tell you why.
Besides the obvious:
Their breath is rancid.
They eat trash.
They eat shoes…the list goes on.
Actually, if you like dogs, you are stupid and probably a hoarder.
Mostly, I hate dogs because all dogs remind me of Rita (There is one exception to this, I don’t mind Donut’s dog).
One morning while living alone in my ghetto apartment, after a break up resulting in a restraining order (but that’s another story) I was awakened to the sound of someone pounding on my door.
That’s when it happened.
“You fucking bitch! You stupid fucking bitch! I’m going to kill you! You whore!” this person continued screaming, “I want the rest of my God-Damned shit!”
Then, I heard glass break.
I looked out the window, it was my ex, Pepe.
Uncontrollably shaking, I called 911.
Now I don’t know if you have tried to call 911 on a cell phone but it does not go smoothly, especially when you are dialing from a phone that has an area code in a neighboring city. Ten minutes and three transfers later I was connected with the right office and the police were dispatched.
By the time they arrived my porch had been vandalized and my garage in the back of the complex had been kicked in as well. Pepe was long gone. Besides myself, there were no witnesses, there was basically nothing the police could do.
I was terrified, I didn’t sleep for days. At night I laid awake just waiting for this guy to come back. Would he kill me this time? He had already been arrested for trying.
So, after almost a week of sleepless nights, I did what any scared shitless, 22-year-old female, living alone and afraid for her life would do.
I went to the shelter and adopted a dog (I considered a gun, but really, do you think THAT would have been a better plan?).
I was walked through the hall by a hefty man on staff. I looked from cage to cage. I liked the big male pit bulls! They were not eligible for adoption. I also liked a huge Rottweiler, probably not the best dog for an apartment.
Then, I saw her, that mashed up, lopsided face.
She looked Pit Bull enough. The guard said she was a mutt. Probably some American Stafford, some Boxer, who really knew. She was probably about two years old and she was a good candidate for adoption. So, I went into the meeting room and waited for the dog to be brought in.
I hadn’t noticed it from the cage but the dog was malnourished. She was all head and ribs. She had a collar that was on so tight it was almost cutting into her skin.
That’s when I saw it!
She had huge, dangly nipples!
These things were hanging down literally an inch from dragging on the floor. I was told this dog had been picked up without her puppies two days ago and had obviously just given birth. Most likely she had been used to breed fighting Pit Bulls then abandoned after. This dog was a hot mess! I couldn’t leave it there. She was scared, scarred and shivering.
I signed the papers, paid the fee and off she went to have her shots, be spayed and microchipped.
I picked Margarita, Rita for short, up from the pound two days later. She was still high from the anesthesia and wobbled to my car. When I got her home she was still a bit unsteady. I made her a bed on the floor and then went to work.
When I got back that afternoon she was still in her bed but starting to come around. She stood up and wagged her tail grateful to be rescued. I took her for a walk and she relieved herself. That was probably the last time she saved a load for outside.
You see, Rita had to be the most retarded dog that ever lived. I must be the biggest sucker for the mentally challenged (much like my marriage with Beans) because I always ended up in situations caring for them.
*Rita and me in 2005. The helmet was a gag gift after the whole balcony thing.*
If I walked out of the house without Rita-tarded she would wine and bark. Then, immediately she would relive herself onto my carpet. It didn’t matter if she had access to the backyard or not. She would climb onto my bed and drool all over my pillow. The damn thing shed everywhere too.
She did the usual, daily trash digging. She ate all my shoes, she even learned how to open the closet door to get to them. She destroyed everything in her path. Like a hooker with AIDS.
One day a year after her adoption, I was physically assaulted by my newest boyfriend (another story) and instead of rescuing me Rita hid in the bath tub.
The dog was useless.
I remember, around the same time, attempting to microwave breakfast, turkey sausage. It didn’t turn out well at all, I wasn’t going to eat it. I gave it to Rita who ate it in one gulp then immediately threw it back up on my carpet. Quickly I ran into the kitchen to retrieve cleaning supplies, when I returned the mess was gone. It had disappeared.
That’s right. She ate it again. Fucking disgusting.
So, I Did what any fed up, retarded dog adopting, asshole would do in my situation. I put an ad up online for a free dog along with a picture. No one responded.
The years came and went and Diar-Rita’s behavior got worse. I was keeping her out of guilt. I despised the damn thing but she fucking loved me! It was horrible, I continued to post ads for a free dog.
Flash Forward: Four years later, I was living alone in Las Vegas with my son. I was now married and pregnant with my daughter. Beans had not yet committed to moving in with us.
Every morning I was picking up giant logs of dog crap off my dining room floor. I was mopping huge puddles of urine up as well. The smell was rancid and I was having morning sickness. It was in itself, unbearable. The dog was getting into my sons room and destroying his toys one by one. She was dragging the trash can around and spreading waste everywhere. My son and I were always covered in dog hair.
Plus I was tired of beating it.
Three months into my second pregnancy it happened.
The final straw.
I was in the kitchen making dinner when my son walked in. He had something in his hand and was eating it. What was it? A toy? No. Chocolate? No.
“That’s strange.” I thought to myself. I hadn’t given him anything to eat.
I pulled the brown chunk out of his hand and examined it.
It was cat shit!
The fucking dog got in between the two couches, under a coffee table and squeezed her fat head into the top covered, wall facing cat box and pulled out cat turds with her tongue. After eating her fill, she left the rest on the carpet for my son to pickup.
This bitch was now fucking with my child’s health. She had to go. I spent the next few nights calling every no-kill shelter in town, no one would take her. They were all full due to the recent housing foreclosure nightmare.
It had to be done, I did what any guilt ridden, pregnancy hormone riding, coward would do.
I made Beans handle it.
The following weekend as I headed out to California with my son, I left Beans and Rita alone in my apartment. I removed Rita’s collar and threw it in the trash and said my goodbyes.
While in California, working my part-time gig in the salon that weekend, it happened.
My phone rang. The caller ID said it was the shelter. I didn’t pick it up.
You see Beans had actually found a no- kill shelter that was willing to take Rita that day as long as she had been fixed. But Beans and his five brain cells decided to lie. He told them that he had “found her”, thus couldn’t prove that she had had the surgery. So, the no-kill shelter not being able to obviously see her spaying scar, turned her away. Beans then went to the pound and dropped here there with the same story. Only beans didn’t realize one thing, Rita was microchipped.
The shelter called me several times to come get my dog. I never called back. I’m pretty sure I know the day she was put down, I could feel it.
Plus, they finally stopped calling.
I will never own a dog again.
Unless it’s Donut’s. I will gladly care for Donut’s dog when we move in together.