Floppy Cheeks

I hate dogs. I hate most animals, but dogs have filled me with inexplicable terror ever since I can remember, as if even the mildest of Dachshunds were actually a rabid blood-spattered Saint Bernard raving to tear my throat out. When they're not causing me to experience anxiety and sometimes bladder issues, they discover plenty of other ways to ruin my day. If I'm trying to sleep late, nap, watch TV, read, or any of my other thrilling hobbies, the last thing I want is a stupid slobbery beast hopping around, bow-wowing and scratching everything in sight.

But now I have one of those beasts.

Kacy decided my company wasn't enough for her anymore, so she made a deal with the devil and brought his firstborn child home. She let her dad do the honors of bringing the Antichrist home for the first time because she was a-scared and she knew I would refrain from cussing him out and throwing dirty socks at him.

He thrust the Boxer puppy into my face to greet me when I let them in to our pristine, poop-free, cinnamon-scented home. I was like, seriously? But I cradled the dumb little monster motherly against my bosom anyway because Kacy's dad looked so enthusiastic about the magnificent event of bringing a child into our lives.

My plot to murder Kacy was well into Stage 3 already as I sat down on the couch with the creature, but just as I was calculating roughly the amount of rat poison needed to do the job, the wrinkly little gremlin yawned hugely and snuggled against me.

Damn it.

I called off the animal sacrifice and laid down with the puppy snoring contentedly, garlic mysteriously oozing from his pores directly into my nostrils. Kacy came home after she was sure I wouldn't grenade her car and told me she'd named him Luke, after Luke Perry because of all his wrinkles.

She also named herself Mommy and me Other Mommy. Someday when he's old enough, we'll have to explain our confusing family to him and hope he can understand .

Luke eats our socks, gets into the trash, hides under my bed, barks at nothing, chews on poo, and tries to play with the horses next door, so we were forced to take disciplinary action. Spanking and "no"ing seemed to challenge him to behave worse, so as a last resort we got a shock collar. We've only actually used it a few times, so don't judge us. As soon as he sees us pick up the shock remote, he stops behaving like Satan and watches us sideways to make sure we're noticing how angelic he's being all of a sudden with no fear-induced motive at all.

Since Kacy and I are lame and don't have anything better to do, one of our favorite forms of entertainment is doing things to make Luke turn his head sideways. Unfamiliar sounds and abnormal events are the best ways to cause his delightful expression of confusion and curiosity. Once he becomes accustomed to something, he no longer has to turn his brain perpendicular to his neck to comprehend it, so the challenge is coming up with things he's never experienced. Sirens, saxophones, and baby laughter all did the trick for a while until he grew bored with them and matured into the need for more complex, sophisticated ideas. Like the blow dryer when it's sitting quietly on the couch, not attacking his moms' heads or roaring its battle cry.

Random spirits and auras also seem to fascinate Luke enough to flop his head over while staring upstairs in wide-eyed horror. But we pretend that's caused by flies and specks of dust.

I guess we'll keep him after all.