Sunday morning are quiet for me, or they used to be, as the Kaiser is at his father’s house. I once started these days with a cup of coffee, a few hours of writing (watching TV and tapping out a sentence every few minutes) and lying on the couch. The past couple of weeks I’ve gone to church with my good friend, Autumn, and today we’re heading to another new one. She’s looking to find a church home. I’m just looking.
And the dogs. My God, the dogs. Now that Carter has determined that I’m not going to either beat him or throw him onto the street, his behavior has relaxed/declined in direct proportion to this growing knowledge. No, I know, dogs don’t think like this, right? I think this one does.
That crazy bitch loves me and she won’t mind if I take a massive dump on her carpet. Again.
It’s been tough. He’s very food aggressive, even with Eleanor, and so dinnertime is served in his crate. I come home at lunch to walk them and do the same when the Kaiser and I return home in the afternoon. He still pees and poos in the house. Often. Whenever I look away, essentially. He dislikes other dogs, and attacked Karen’s Boston Terrier. He likes to destroy shit.
The biggest issue? The Kaiser does not like the dog. He doesn’t. He’s afraid of Carter jumping on him (although Carter rather loves Cole and has never shown the slightest aggression toward people) and he thinks the dog smells … like a dog. He cannot abide the barking and the howling, constantly yelling at him, “Dog, be QUIET. DOG. Stoooop that.”
I’ve tried explaining that A) the dog doesn’t speak English and B) the kid’s yelling actually heightens the volume of noise. He doesn’t care.
And then there was the bedtime-pee incident, one that I’m not proud of, and one that undid a long campaign of non-cursing.
We were reading 10 Minutes ‘Til Bedtime in the Kaiser’s bed. We’d just taken both dogs for a walk and a pee. As we read, me crossed legged in the twin bed and the Kaiser lounging against his pillow, Carter comes in the room, looks at us and promptly pisses all over the carpet.
“You motherfucker,” I yell and lunge for the guilty beast.
“Mommy! You said the F-word.”
“Appropriate situation, Cole. Appropriate usage.”
But it’s not and I realize my mistake, my grave mistake, immediately. I clean the pee with the second bottle of carpet cleaning solution that I’ve bought in a week and fight an increasingly common combination of rage and despair.
After a thorough scrubbing I apologized. Sitting back down on the bed, I explained that mommies are not perfect, that we get frustrated and we get mad and we say things that we don’t mean. Doesn’t change my actions, doesn’t undo the word, doesn’t really make things better. The dog has hurt my self control. No, that’s unfair. I have had trouble with controlling my emotions in relation to the dog’s behavior.
So what now? I don’t really know. I have no answers. I’ll go to church, I’ll walk the dogs, and I’ll try again.