I have two dogs. Not whiny ass girlie dogs like a cocker spaniels or poodles but labs. Two big ass 100 pound labs – one yellow and one black. There called Ebony and Ivory – ha! Just kidding. The yellow lab is Ben, the black lab is Stella.
I’ve had Ben since he was a fatty, “cause $1100 worth of damage to an apartment” and “cause mommy to call animal poison control 3 times in the first year” puppy. And just so you know, it will cost you $30 to find out if the little packet of chemicals they give you with fresh cut flowers is poisonous to dogs…the answer? “Maybe…just keep an eye on him.” Thirty bucks well spent.
Anyway, Ben is now 9 years old and suffers from diabetes. In between insulin shots, he spends his days napping and trying to get POD to feed him snacks. Not a bad life.
Stella, on the other hand, is a little different. She is adopted - I used to be a volunteer with a lab rescue group and good old Stella was one of my foster dogs. We think Stella is around 10 years old (well, actually, we thought she was around 10 years old two years ago so I suppose I should say she’s around 12). Stella is a sweetheart and she loves me and she loves POD. The rest of you…she can do without. She’s much more of a “my mom better like you, asswipe, or my teeth are about to meet your groin” sort of gal and you just got admire that. She is constantly on patrol – she runs the perimeter of the fence in the backyard and then checks back in to give me an “all clear” each and every time. She is the self-designated protector of our realm.
But don’t get me wrong. Stella is a lover of friends. She will lick you to death. When she likes you, she’s licking to give you kisses…if she doesn’t like you; she’s licking you to tenderize the meat.
So I feel relatively safe with my two 100 pound dogs as protection. Even though Ben is a “Duh. I’m a happy dog” guy and Stella is “What are you looking at, motherfucker?” gal, I feel they balance each other out nicely.
Now that my pals are getting older, we’ve had to make some adjustments. I find middle of the night trips outside to be a little more frequent and Ben needs help getting up on the bed (yes, he sleeps with me, suck it). And this finally brings me to last night.
So Ben and I are sleeping soundly at about 3 am. Ben is snoring like a champ but I am awakened by the sound of Stella pacing throughout the house clearly wearing doggie tap shoes on the hardwood floors. Finally, after convincing me that she will not be sleeping any time soon unless I let her out to pee, I haul my fat ass out of bed. I open the back door and she takes off like I’d hit her with a cattle prod. She disappears into the bushes and I hear a loud high-pitch squeal. This squeal was surely heard throughout the entire metro Atlanta area though Ben managed to sleep right through it. Much rustling followed and then Stella came running back into the house and threw herself down on my bedroom floor. She grins up at me and says, “Yo, mom, I gave that biyatch a smackdown the likes of which the animal kingdom has never seen. We are safe. Peace out.”
Yep. That’s my girl. Stella the Possum Killer. She of course wanted a kiss good night for her efforts but we’re going to wait until she’s sucked down a few more bowls of water before we tackle that one.