“Your dumbass dog is at it again,” my wife announced unceremoniously the other night.
What, exactly, was Briggs doing, you ask? Slowly, steadily and silently releasing dense clouds of noxious gas. Pockets of reprehensibility so flagrant as to even be equipped with their own (and noticeably different) barometric pressures, essentially rendering each such pocket little more than a tiny, malodorous weather front. I looked over at my hound only to find him sprawled out on his bed, his mouth eerily agape, snoring like a bear.
That’s right, Briggs was sleepfarting again. But lest you cast him off as a vulgar beast, please let the record show that my dog is no such thing.
He’s just an idiot.
That’s right. My Lab is an idiot. An absolutely beautiful idiot, I might add — his coat so brown it almost appears artificially colored, only the gray whiskers of his chin keeping him from being one big chocolate blob. His perfectly brown nose, almost always wet and cold, teams up with his wide, boxy head to form a clunky canine triangle that gives him a dignified look.
Yet he has no dignity, a tidbit which is easy to pick up each and every time his tongue doubles as a nutsack Zamboni during his disturbingly audible, 30 minute ball-licking sessions.
His laundry list of exploits makes Marley come off like one of Paris Hilton’s lap dogs. For starters, he humps anything that moves, as well as a few things that don’t, as evidenced last Christmas when he escaped the confines of our invisible fence and humped an unsuspecting wise men from a neighbor’s nativity scene.
When he’s not humping, he’s eating. Any and everything. And ofttimes he’s surprisingly adept, like the time he somehow opened up a pizza box and scarfed down two pieces of pizza, inexplicably leaving the others undisturbed.
But it’s not just pizza he eats, my friends. How I wish it were, but, alas, no. He’s also into other things and my wife was kind enough to alert me of one such thing over the phone back when the triplets were babies.
“Honey,” Caroline began, “your dumbass dog has struck again. He dug into the garbage and chewed up a full bag of…”
No. No. Please no. Not a bag of…
“dirty diapers! A whole day’s worth. Not only that, he must have eaten some because he’s thrown up on the floor. And I’ve got news for you. It doesn’t smell like throw up! It smells like something else!”
“Well, honey,” I answered, “you always said he had shit for brains. I suppose it was only a matter of time before he started having shit for lunch.”
Proof also, I suppose, that my mom was right all those years ago. It really isn’t that great of an idea to kiss a dog on the mouth after all.
Anyhoo, as you might imagine, we’ve been on pins and needles this time around, given the fact that our trash is once again regularly laden with dirty diapers. The mere memory of Briggs’s DNA-seeking missions enough to earn Animal Services their own special spot on our speed dial.
To his credit, Briggs has steered clear of the diapers. But he’s still reeking quite a bit of havoc, thank you very much, farting, licking and humping ever further along into the imperfect progress that is our family’s story.
Yet for all of his clumsy and socially unacceptable behavior, whenever he’s around our baby, he’s inexplicably gentle. He loves to tiptoe right up to him and slowly stick his nose within inches of his face and sniff repeatedly, moving back and forth in perfect time with the glider that delicately rocks our infant, until he’s smelled to his heart’s content. At which point, he usually sits down alongside the ottoman in front of the couch where he stands an effective guard to our innocent one.
It’s quite a beautiful scene, really.
Well, until, of course, he fires up that damn Zamboni again.
Yes. My dog’s an idiot. But he’s our idiot. And, my, how we love him.