Fight Apathy, or Don't

Fuck You, Box of Ashes

“Yes, we have a new puppy, would you like to see a picture?”

“Well, I had to take Chocolate to the vet, but she’s ok now, they say she’ll just pass it in her stool.”

“It’s like, when he looks at me, he seems like a real person”

“Oh, we have a new puppy. I imagine this is what kids are like.”

If you have ever said any of those phrases out loud, you need to go and fuck yourself. I’m probably one of the few people on the planet who hates all animals, especially dogs. I hate dogs more than I hate nature. I hate dogs more than American Idol.

I fucking hate animals, ESPECIALLY dogs.

There I said it. Wanna break up now? Good, give me my letterman jacket back, because we ain’t going to the prom. If you’re an animal lover, then fire up your email client, and get ready to send the hate mail.

“Yes, we have a new puppy, would you like to see a picture?”
“I’d rather be ass raped with the business end of a steel rake.”

“Well, I had to take Chocolate to the vet, but she’s ok now, they say she’ll just pass it in her stool.”
“Wait, you didn’t say she swallowed your pride.”

“It’s like, when he looks at me, he seems like a real person.”
“You’re retarded.”

“Oh, we have a new puppy. I imagine this is what kids are like.”
“No, you shouldn’t kick kids.”

Those are the appropriate answers to all of those statements above. I should preface this by saying I have never actually been physically violent to any animal that didn’t deserve it.

I’ve been around animals since I was a kid. When I was a baby my parents had an Irish Setter named Kelly. Kelly acted as if she was on a steady diet of 8 balls of cocaine and caffeine. They eventually got rid of her because she was too hyper. I can’t remember the exact story, but I think one of my family members bought her because she looked good sitting in their motorcycle sidecar, but I could be wrong.

We lived on the water, and after Kelly left, one of my Uncles got the idea to steal a baby duck from his mother and give him to me. I was 4, and I gave him the greatest name for a pet ever. Merv Griffin. Merv was eventually eaten by some rabid thing in the yard, so he wasn’t around too long, either.

At around 7 years old, my parents got me a Schnauzer from church that I immediately named Shorta because he was shorter than Kelly. I really had no interest in the dog at all. I guess it was my parents idea to give me some “responsibility” to feed him, but I regularly forgot he existed because 1) He was always tied up outside, 2) I was 7 years old, and 3) Captain Caveman was on.

One time Shorta escaped his personal hell that was my back yard. It was one of those rare occasions that I actually remembered to check on him when I noticed he was gone. I walked into our front yard, and saw him across the street in the neighbors yard. When I called him, instead of doing something smart and heading for the hills, he ran right towards me and got nailed by a car. First thought I had?

Wow, THAT’S what that looks like.

He survived the hit and run just fine, and lived another 6-7 years. You might think that seeing my pet run over by a car would change my feelings about the poor little thing, but nah, nothing changed.

I went pet-less for quite a while after that until that fateful day that would change my life, and the life of those around me forever. It was when I met my nemesis.

When my wife and I were dating, she decided to get a puppy. As I said, I’ve never been much of an animal person, but I figured if I supported this decision, it would probably end up getting me laid. A friend of ours had gotten the same breed that my wife was interested in, which made her decision even easier. Of course, at 19, everyone makes shitty decisions, and we were no different, so we went to a pet store in a mall, and picked her out.

A Basset Hound.

Ramona.

Ramona should have acted like other Basset Hounds, but she was the exact opposite. She was never lazy, she was always hyper, and she chewed fucking everything. I thought, “Well, it’s probably because she’s a puppy. Jen’s happy, and because I agreed, I’m gonna get laid now. I can put up with this until she grows older and calms down.”

It never happened.

Once we got married, she lived with us in our first house. That dog would run around the house all day, and night, and never stopped. And she chewed everything. Wood. Wires. My action figures. My toys. My records. EVERYTHING. I slowly built up the hate until this really weird thing happened.

One day I’m teaching, and I receive an email from eBay. This is early Internet days, before spam, so I open it up. This email is notifying me that I won the auction of the Muppet Animal action figure, which just ended.

Hmm.

That’s funny. I have an entire set of these…things…hmm. I stop class, and I immediately call home.

“Hi Babe.”

“Hey.”

“Hey, listen, did you bid on anything on eBay?”

From there I was told the story of how Ramona, who by the way, was no longer a puppy, had decided that day, to eat my Muppets. It was like a personal attack on me, and she was going to show me who was boss.

I hated that fucking dog. Now I’m going to make her miserable. I used to flip her the bird on a regular basis. I gave her the nickname Fuckhead the Shoe eater. She’d retaliate with pissing everywhere in the house. Jen would let her sleep in the bed, and she’d take up my entire side just to get me out of the way. I would tell friends that I couldn’t wait until she was out of my life.

Together as a couple we took her to training school, in another of my ill-conceived attempts to get laid. Ramona slept.

We’d put her in the basement when people came over because she was so hyper, and when people would ask where she was, I would usually reply, “Hopefully dead.”

Ramona ate Han Solo.

She ate Bumblebee.

She pissed on my original Let it Be record.

You couldn’t leave anything on the floor because she’d eventually either eat it, or piss on it. What’s worse is once she got a hold of something to chew, she would hide somewhere and try to bite you if you tried to take it away. Snapping, growling and barking she would eventually destroy the thing and walk away.

But there were other things.

When my kids were learning to crawl, she’d attempt to hump them. Her ears smelled like something crawled up in there and died. She jumped on every person who walked into the house. Once we were distracted with new guests, she’d immediately find something to take and eat.

This dog was an asshole, and every opportunity to get her out of my life was somehow thwarted. I washed my hands of everything Ramona related unless she touched my stuff. I didn’t want anything to do with her.

My mother-in-law was a big Ramona supporter. She’d come over, put her purse on the ground, and pet her wildly, SO happy to see her. So there was one time where she came over, and as usual, she left her pocketbook on the ground, next to the couch, and walked away. Ramona started rooting around inside looking for something to eat. This was one of those times where I wasn’t going to get involved, and prove to my mother-in-law that the dog was an asshole, so I let her dig out what she wanted, and she took the greatest thing out of the purse.

A bottle of Ibuprofen.

I sat there watching TV while she chomped and finally opened the bottle and ate the whole thing. As I said before, I washed my hands of anything to do with her, and I saw this as an opportunity to 1) show my mother in law that the dog was an asshole, and 2) make that fucker have to get her stomach pumped.

Eventually Ramona lay down, and my mother in law was yelling at me for letting her go through her purse when she saw the broken bottle, and some random pills on the floor.

“MATTHEW! Did you just let her eat all these pills?”

“Huh? I dunno, I was watching Die Hard, what happened now?”

They called the vet who told them to feed her some crap, and she eventually vomited in every room in the house.

Another lost opportunity.

I can’t stress enough how much I hated this dog. I remember the biggest fight my wife and I ever had was about her eating a pound of bacon that she somehow managed to get off the counter. She followed that amazing feat by shitting raw bacon in the middle of the living room.

Eventually she got older, and started to get sick. I was ready to throw a party. The first thing to go was her eye, which they promptly removed to relieve pressure. The problem was that they just sewed her eye shut. My friend Chris came over one day and said, “Dude, what the fuck is wrong with your dog?”

Jen eventually had her put down on what I call The Greatest Day of My Life. I could now sit on the floor and no longer have to worry about wet spots. My kids could play with toys on the ground without worrying about them being chewed to bits. Jen was sad, my kids were sad, and she brought home this little box of her ashes that she still keeps on the shelf. My daughter sometimes picks up that box of ashes and says, “Hi Ramona!”

I flip it the bird.