Random thoughts from Jackie

The other day, I forgot my book.  So I had to suck it up and read the New York Times on my lunch break.  An article caught my eye about a billionaire building shelters for stray dogs at the Sochi Olympics.  I had to laugh because it reminded me of something my mother used to say when we were kids and we weren’t being appropriately grateful.  “You could be a child living in Russia, standing in line for hours for a piece of moldy bread.”  But I digress.  The root of this story is a day in the life of Ranger Hamilton, my dog.

Ranger’s day starts at 6 am when Ranger decides he wants to go outside.  So I put on slippers.  Someone left the door to the garage ajar and Ranger, a master of escape, gets out.  I have to chase him.  I’m wearing pink and red fuzzy slippers, mismatched pajamas, hair in a dew rag and no bra.  And I always think when Ranger does these things, he’s transmitting into my head, like ‘bye Felicia’ while he’s running around the cul-de-sac and eventually right into the arms of my incredibly hot neighbor.  Refer back to how I’m dressed. My neighbor hands me my dog, I say thank you trying not to get too close because I have morning breath, and trudge back to my house.

Later on the same day, Ranger gets into the trash.  I’m scolding him and he and I can see the wheels turning in his brain.  Reduce, reuse, recycle.  He’s thinking he just eliminated a part of my carbon footprint.  A half hour later, he recycles that trash on the tile floor in the kitchen.  Sigh.  He gives me another look that says ‘it’s easier to clean the tile than the rug.  I did you a favor.’

I clean up the barf and put him outside.  He comes back.  What’s he carrying in his mouth?  Poop.  He drops the poop at my feet like he’s giving me a diamond.  And in his little doggie thought bubble, ‘it’s not my poop,’ which makes it okay.

So I’m outside smoking a cigarette and of course Ranger and Snuggle come out with me to take care of business.  It’s not he hasn’t done it before, but there he goes again, peeing on Snuggles.  He walks by me and his thought bubble says, ‘she’s my bitch.’  Snuggles doesn’t seem to care which worries me, but that’s another story.

I have to go to work.  I get out of the shower and I find him on my bed chewing underwear.  I can just imagine him saying, ‘Hey.  You said you needed new underwear.  I’m just hooking you up.’

I’m grateful to go to work because I apparently will need new underwear.  I get home and I fix myself a cocktail because it was one of those nights that had bourbon written all over it.  I’m planning to sit down and watch the season finale of American Horror Story: Coven, but Ranger has other plans.  At midnight, after a hard evening of slinging lattes and Frappuccinos, Ranger want to play chase.  I’m running around the house, barefoot so I don’t make any noise, chasing Ranger around the dining room table.  I’m done.  I just look at him and say, “Ranger, you could be a dog in Russia.”  And in that moment, I know, one of my worst fears has come true.  I have become my mother and the curse she heaped on me years ago has finally been fulfilled.  I have a child, admittedly one with four legs and a tail, who now is just like me.

Until next time, much love, Jackie

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