When I adopted Mayrose in March of this year, my house was immediately turned upside down. She required a lot of time and attention. ALOT!! This did not please Grady, President of the Licks A Lot Club, and official lap warmer in the Hopson household. He sulked for a few weeks. And then, I stepped in something wet.
Now, if you’ve ever had dog pee in your house, you know the smell. Pungent is the word that comes to mind yet it does not begin to encompass the stench that invaded my nostrils and pierced my brain, like a dagger being plunged clear through my sinus cavity, when I knelt down for a whiff of the carpet. The undeniably acidic boy dog pee funk was overpowering! My right eye lid began to twitch and my palms began to sweat. There was no doubt. It was dog pee. I sought the boy out.
Lecturing Grady, rubbing his nose in the pee spot, and popping his butt did not work. Neither did giving him frequent trips outside, a visit to the vet to make sure that he was healthy, or doting over him with extra positive attention. He kept having ‘accidents’.
I use the word ‘accident’ loosely. He knew what the hell he was doing. What he was having was ‘intentionals’. He’ intended’ to make sure that I knew just how upset he was at suddenly becoming a big brother, and without my having asked him for his input on the matter.
What to do? What to do? I had tried everything, and I could not risk him ruining my home with boy dog pee funk.
That’s when I remembered my co-worker, Barb, telling me about the belly band. It’s like a panty for the male dog, except that it only fits around the waist, thereby wrangling his pee pee and capturing any ‘intentionals’. No expense was spared. I had him measured and specially fit for his belly band. Then, I waited patiently for the seamstress to deliver the goods.
The party was over for little Grady. His boy panties would surely do the trick. Right? But he was not the least bit humbled when his belly band came in and I called out, “Come here, son. Put on your boy panties”. Instead, he kicked and screamed and acted like a bucking bronco. Maybe I had bruised his fragile male ego.
The joke was on me, I guess. Grady did not have on those boy panties for more than an hour, when he paraded into the living room bare butt naked. “Son, where are your boy panties?”
And I kid you not, this is what he said, “Well, Mom, I was rubbing my back under the foot board on the bed – back and forth and back and forth – when my boy panties ‘accidentally’ fell off. I hope you don’t mind, but I had an ‘intentional’ on the leg of your dresser”.
When I left the house this morning, Grady was wearing his boy panties.
And an ace bandage.
And a safety pin.
Wish me luck. Until next week, wag on Augusta!