Potty Mouth

I have a problem.

I have a HUGE potty mouth.

But I don't ALWAYS have a potty mouth, which is sort of the thing. If I can manage to rein it in, say, while I'm giving announcements at church, or while I am playing with a baby or helping an old woman cross the street, then why can't I control my mouth ALL the time??

The Bible tells me that I should, and that I MUST, cut it out:

• Ephesians 5:4 - Let there be no filthiness nor foolish talk nor crude joking, which are out of place, but instead let there be thanksgiving.

• Proverbs 21:23 - whoever keeps his mouth and his tongue keeps himself out of trouble.

But then, the Bible tells me that I CAN'T cut it out:

• James 3:6-8 -- For every kind of beast and bird, of reptile and sea creature, can be tamed and has been tamed by mankind, but no human being can tame the tongue. It is a restless evil, full of deadly poison.

• James 3:10 -- From the same mouth come blessing and cursing.  My brothers, these things ought not to be so. 

• Romans 7:18-19 --  For I know that good itself does not dwell in me, that is, in my sinful nature. For I have the desire to do what is good, but I cannot carry it out. For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do—this I keep on doing.

So you kinda see my problem, right??

I know exactly how this all started for me. I was in the USC Trojan Marching Band in the early 1980s. Back then, we lived in a world far less fettered by today's political correctness. 

We. Swore. All. The. Time.  Even when we were brought to attention on the field during rehearsal, which happened every few minutes, we, the 250-member marching band, would shout, in unison: "U - S - C! F*** the (whoever we happened to be playing that week)!!" Granted, we'd tone it down to "BEAT the (whoever we happened to be playing that week)!!" when in public. But only reluctantly.

We had our own version of every opponent's fight song, each laced with obscenities. Generally speaking, the first verse would be tame enough to sing in public, at pep rallies and such, and each successive verse would become more and more crude -- those verses were not generally meant for public consumption, but we were endlessly amused by them and usually managed to keep them away from unwilling ears. Usually. 

For example, the second verse of our version of the UCLA fight song is dirty enough that, when my family insisted on hearing it, I'd censor myself by singing it this way:

Bruins are a bunch of hmmm hmmmm,

Song girls are a bunch of hmmmm.

When they hmmmm hmmmm hmmmm hmmmm hmmmm they look like garbage trucks.

You get the idea. And part of the band culture was not only to memorize all these songs, but to sing them loudly, every chance we got. As freshmen, we were required to know all the verses of these and other equally inappropriate songs...

I remember when I first joined the Trojan Band. I was a relatively naive little Christian girl, and I remember my jaw literally dropping open when I heard such profanity spewing out of the sweetest looking upperclassmen, as they urged us on to meet the standards of TGMBITHOTU (The Greatest Marching Band In The History Of The Universe). Whether singing or speaking or yelling at us, "swears" were just part of the lexicon of the TMB.

I also remember my fourth year, when I was section leader of the clarinets. There was the sweetest little guy who was the most promising of all the freshman scum (yes, hazing was a big part of band too). About the third day of band camp, he started to falter and not look as good as he had at first. His marching technique and attitude were growing worse and worse. Sensing that he was starting to lose heart, I pulled him aside. 

"This is super hard, isn't it?" I asked. He nodded.
"You feel like you're not getting the hang of it, even after all this time...?" Nod.
"And you can't believe the foul language you're hearing around here, huh?" Another nod.
"Especially coming from women. It's pretty shocking, isn't it?" Another nod, and this time, from behind his Ray-Bans, a single tear slid down his cheek.
"You know what? I was exactly like you when I first got here. You can totally do this. You're the best marcher of all the freshmen, and you're the best player too.  Hang in there. After a while, you kinda get used to it. Please don't quit. We need you."
Again, he nodded. He never said a word. I don't know if I helped. But not only did he stay through band camp -- years later, he ended up becoming section leader himself.

But the whole foul language thing was a problem. And it stuck with me. I'm just sayin'. 

So, after I left the Trojan Band, it took a while to learn to once again speak like a civilian.  And I admit, it was not easy. 

Fortunately, I married a man who wasn't shocked by my occasional (haha, occasional) lapse into profanity. Brian and I were always pretty careful around his daughter, Becky. But we only had her a few days at a time, so we could pull ourselves together and only unleash the kraken when she wasn't around. And even after Jennifer, our youngest, was born, we still lacked, um, self control. For a while.

At work, we had a "Potty Mouth Jar". In an effort to clean up our language, any time someone swore, he or she would put a quarter into the jar. When it filled up (which was far too frequently), we'd use it for happy hour after work. On review, this plan might have worked better if we hadn't, um, rewarded ourselves for cussing... I even remember one day, a co-worker stormed into work late, crammed a ten-dollar bill into the jar, and said, "It's gonna be THAT kind of day!" So, at least I managed to surround myself with people who at least understood (if not shared) my problem.

The turning point, for my darling husband and me, came when Jennifer was just beginning to speak and understand lots of words (which for her, was super early -- she was saying full sentences by the time she turned two). We were in Michigan, visiting his folks at Christmas time. Apparently, as I learned later, Brian had been carrying Jennifer that morning while stepping into the garage, and he'd painfully wrenched his ankle when he half-missed a step down. Later, he admitted that perhaps he had cursed in reaction to the pain.

Well, fast forward to later that day. We'd been out Christmas shopping with Jennifer, and we'd stepped into a Wendy's for lunch. Jennifer had grown bored of eating and was tossing her food, one french fry at a time, onto the floor. I tried a few times to correct her, but to no avail. So finally I calmly removed all the food from her tray and we continued eating, not paying her much mind. Jennifer took one look at this development, and in the clearest, loudest, most crisply enunciated manner you can imagine, she yelled, "G** [pause] D**** IT!"

The entire Wendy's, which was jam-packed with nice mid-Western people, fell instantly and completely silent, like in the old West movies when the villain crashes through the squeaky saloon doors. In horror, Brian and I looked at Jennifer, then at each other. Then, responsible parents that we were, we burst into hysterical laughter. Brian looked around, wiping his eyes, and said, "Well, at least she used it appropriately."

So at this point, we realized that Jennifer had entered that "parrot" stage. We knew that it was time to cool it on the language. And we did pretty well with that. Until recently.

It seems like now that Jennifer has reached the age of 17, our filter has sprung a leak. Okay, several leaks. We are far less careful about swearing around her. And with all the extremely funny but off-color TV shows, videos, songs, etc. floating around, it's sort of a losing battle. So far, Jennifer has only unleashed one really big swear in a place where she absolutely should not have (at least that I know of). In fact, the word she used was something I'd never even heard before. It was pretty impressive. And, on review, it wasn't entirely unwarranted, either. But hey - this blog is about me.

I try. I really try to choose other words when something unexpected or frustrating happens. My favorite exclamation of late is, "SHOVELS!" And usually I'm able to pull that one forward before a less acceptable epithet escapes.  But I constantly slip and struggle to keep that leash on my tongue. 

Recently, I saw "The Fantastic Mr. Fox" for the first time. It's a delightful movie -- we absolutely loved it.  Part of the humor in it involves how the characters swear.  They use the word "cuss" for everything.  The main character, voiced by George Clooney, refers to something as a "cluster cuss."  

Here's another exchange:

Mr. Fox: I understand what you're saying, and your comments are valuable, but I'm gonna ignore your advice. 

Badger: The cuss you are. 

Mr. Fox: The cuss am I? Are you cussing with me? 

Badger: No, you cussing with me? 

Mr. Fox: Don't cussing point at me! 

Badger: If you're gonna cuss with somebody, you're not gonna cuss with me, you little cuss!

I find this hilarious, and I've started trying to use "cuss" in place of the many colorful words I might otherwise use. I've had varying success with this. Hopefully I'll get better at it. My success is inversely proportional to just HOW angry I am. Because come on... sometimes, there's just no acceptable alternative to the F word.

I know that for me, this is a spiritual issue -- a matter of heart. That as I draw closer to the Lord, He can clean this part of yet another dirty closet out for me. But for now, I limp along doing the best I can -- which isn't very well -- and when I blow it, ask forgiveness. Usually. And often. 

Feel free to call me on it, if you hear me let fly with a colorful phrase. Or just pray for me. It'll take a village to get this accomplished. In the meantime, maybe you can lend me some quarters for that Potty Mouth Jar...

Carolyn Butler -- My Wicked, Wicked Mother

(note: I had originally posted this blog, and then, while using my phone on vacation this week, I accidentally deleted it. My husband, the ultimate hunter/gatherer, managed to find a copy in my old browser history and restore it to me after we returned. So this is a second edition of this blog. Thank you, Imzadi! You save me so much heartache!)

-----

My mother was the most positive, unswervingly optimistic person I've ever known. She could see the bright side in just about anything. As a teen, if I'd point out that I'd chosen two colors in my outfit that didn't match, she'd cheerfully reply, "Those colors are in the same family! They look great!" She was irrepressible. To describe her, I like to tell the following story I heard somewhere:

Scientists wanted to study optimism in children, and whether they could change a child’s outlook by changing his or her circumstances. They led a small boy who was constantly pessimistic into a beautiful, brightly lit room full of the most creative, lavish, state-of-the-art toys any child could ever want. The little boy walked into the middle of the room, looked around sadly, then dropped his head and began to wail in despair. 

“What’s wrong?” asked the scientist. 

“How can I possibly find time to play with all these toys? And what if I break one? What if I break them all?? What if someone comes in and steals them all? Oh, nooooo… this is just terrible!!” 

Next, scientists ushered a little girl who was constantly optimistic into a different room. This room was piled knee-deep with horse manure. The room had nothing but plain beige walls, a single hanging light bulb, and a floor full of horse manure. Instantly, the little girl’s face lit up. She waded gleefully into the manure and began scooping up great handfuls, throwing them up in the air, and yelling, “YESSS!!! This is SO GREAT!!” 

Perplexed, a researcher asked her, “What are you talking about? This is a room full of horse manure. How can you possibly be so happy?” 

The little girl continued digging, giggled wildly and answered, “I just KNOW there’s a PONY in here somewhere!!!!!”

That little girl could easily have been my mom.

Mom was the survivor of a terrible childhood. It wasn’t until 1976, when I was 13, that she first obtained a copy of her own birth certificate. It was then she discovered that the man whom she’d grown up thinking was her father actually wasn’t. A different man’s name appeared in the section marked “FATHER”. It turns out that my grandmother had gotten pregnant out of wedlock (which, in 1934, was a MUCH bigger deal than it is now). The Fred Sharp she knew as "Father" was not at all related to her. 

[THIS JUST IN - my sister Debbie, who has done a lot of research on our family tree, says Grandma was actually married to Gerald Steuttgen, the guy on the birth certificate, and that they divorced after something like two years. Apparently I need a fact checker, because when you learn things as a kid, they're almost always not the whole truth... In any event, the fact that my grandmother had my mom with another man never came up in conversation between the two of them, apparently...]

For my mom, this discovery caused everything to click into place in a way it never had before. She had grown up suffering abuse from this man, whom she now realized was just her stepfather. The fact that her younger sister, who was his actual offspring, escaped the same evil treatment suddenly became clear and much more understandable.

My mom said she always knew that the abuse she suffered wasn’t her fault. Many children of abuse grow up with terrible self esteem, thinking they were the bad, wrong ones, rather than rightly blaming the monsters who hurt them. Mom had a deep and unshakeable faith in her Savior, Jesus, which sustained her through those years of mistreatment.  And in spite of this, Mom was the most upbeat, cheerful woman I've ever known. 

Therefore, no one would ever suspect that Carolyn Butler had a secret mean streak. But oh, did she ever. She was a wicked, wicked woman. I shall now attempt to prove this with two true stories.

First, there was our quartet, Sterling.

For several years, I had the pleasure of singing in a Sweet Adelines quartet with my mom. Sterling was my first quartet experience, and it was amazing. The other three ladies in my quartet were seasoned Sweet Adelines, and they had already distinguished themselves in our hobby. Our tenor, Mavis, had been in many regional champion and medalist quartets. Our first bass, Susan, was a “Queen of Harmony” (international champion) with 4-For-The-Show. Our second bass was Bonnie, also a Queen, with Panache. My mom had sung in many international level quartets - I think the highest she ever placed was fifth, with Quicksilver.

So, being the lead and brand new to quartet singing, I had the unparalleled experience of singing with three brilliant, completely bulletproof, amazing musicians, who simply sang into my sound and patiently followed along behind me while I progressed. As I mastered new skills and achieved more mature resonance in my voice, they simply unpacked more of their own fully stocked boxes of talent and brought them out to play in our developing sound. I admit that this experience spoiled me forever for quartet singing. How could I ever have another quartet to rival this?

But I digress. I was supposed to tell you about my mean, wicked mother.

To further set the stage, you need to know that I am, to say the very least, fiercely competitive. Each year before our regional competition, we’d put together little love gifts to exchange with the other competing quartets. Once, I (only partly) joked that I wanted to include a little poem I’d written, along with our gift:

“If contest has got you so nervous you’re hurling,

Think about getting your butt kicked by Sterling.”

My quartet overruled me, of course. I mean, it's not like I woulda actually given that to the other ladies... Sheesh.

Anyway, in competition, we always seemed to place just behind another quartet called Shimmer (and I believe I've told all of those ladies this story by now - most of us have sung or still sing in Harborlites chorus together!). It was a source of great frustration to me that we never seemed to manage to out-score that darned Shimmer.  So when we finally placed third, earning a MEDAL, and Shimmer came in just behind us at fourth place, I was pretty pumped.

The Monday following our regional weekend, however, I got a phone call from my mother. She told me she had some bad news. Our International Headquarters had called her to say that they had unfortunately made a tabulation error in our regional contest scores. Instead of outscoring Shimmer by the few points we had, which had landed us in third place, it turned out Shimmer had actually earned the medal, and Sterling was once again, sadly, fourth. Mom said that the representative from International asked us to please mail our shiny new medals to Shimmer, and that they’d be glad to send us those lame fourth-place ribbons that you have to safety pin onto your clothes... (mind you, the SAI rep didn't call them lame. I'm relaying my version of the conversation).

I was devastated. I'm pretty sure I even started to cry. How could they make such an error? Why on earth would they ask us to send OUR medals to our (in my sad, little mind) rivals? As I moaned and railed against the system, I slowly became aware that my mom was, incredibly, choking back laughter. When I finally took a breath, she could barely get the words out — “April Fools!” before she burst into her little high-pitched, hysterical mirth. Dismayed, I think I finally hung up on her.

See? I told you she was mean.

But wait. There’s more. I shall call this second piece of evidence “Zebra Panties”.

Long ago, I was shopping with my mom, whom my sisters and I used to call "The Carolyn Bird" (imagine a parrot repeatedly squawking, "Looks good! Buy it! Looks good! Buy it!"). I needed undies, but in the amazing high-waisted, high-cut style pictured above (which, in my defense, was quite popular at the time), literally the only color scheme left on the shelf was this 3-pack of zebra stripes. I kept digging and searching until, exasperated, my mom said, "Just buy them! No one but you will ever see them anyway!" Anxious to be done, I hastily paid for them and we escaped the store.

Fast forward several months. We were at a Verdugo Hills Chorus show, hurriedly changing in the dressing room between sets. Guess what I was wearing? And who else but my dear mother yelled, from across the room, "Hey Doreen!! NICE ZEBRA PANTIES!!" This drew guffaws of laughter from my singing sisters. See? My mother was NOT as sweet as you all think...

As a little postscript, fast forward SEVERAL years, after my mom had died. Just because of that fond yet cringe-inducing memory, I had never thrown out these panties. And the only time I ever dig one out is on laundry day, when there is NOTHING else left to wear. So, one such laundry day happened to fall on a Harborlites rehearsal night. They were revealing our new costumes, these gorgeous, flirty, velvety black dresses with polka dots. Another front row member, Carol, tried it on first to act as a model for the chorus, but she was too skinny for the prototype. So they had me try it on. Our opening song for our finals package was "Ain't Misbehavin'", which featured some of our more athletic front row people rolling around on the floor and flinging their legs into the air. Gerry Papageorge, the designer, asked me to get down and do the kicks (even though I wasn't one of the floor people), so that they could see how the dress would move around with the dancers. I suddenly realized, with horror, that that morning I had put on those darn 80's zebra panties, and that a hundred people would soon see them in all their glory as I lie there awkwardly flailing around on the floor. I agreed to demonstrate the floor kick, but only after quietly asking our director, Pam, to make the entire chorus turn their backs on us! She actually DID, and I then felt compelled to explain my odd request to the entire chorus by repeating this whole tale, assuring them that Mom was probably having another great laugh over my zebra panties.

So next time any of you has a mind to talk about how nice my mom was, be sure you know the WHOLE story. Wicked, I tell you...

The Last Dog I'll Ever Own

To tell you about the last dog I'll ever own, I must first back up a bit...

Once upon a time, I adopted our first dog (as an adult pet-owner) for Jennifer. Charlie was kind of a nightmare. He was sweet enough, but he'd been abused and neglected, and he was a terribly fearful dog. He barked at EVERYTHING. He was even deathly afraid of Brian, in spite of our best efforts to hug him and treat him like the pack leader in front of Charlie.

Here's Charlie, looking the happiest I ever saw him. We were camping at Carpinteria, where he was actually more relaxed and cheerful than at any other time in his life. At his very best he looked, well, not suicidal... and he HATED cameras. I think it was a fear of the flash, which, like many things, terrified him. Every time I brought out a camera, he'd slink away and hide.

His allergies (and perhaps phobias) caused him to lick his paws until they bled. This led to my ever-patient husband's incredulous cry: "Are dogs even evolved enough to have freakin' allergies????"

Mercifully, Charlie didn't last long with us. After only a couple of years, he developed several serious health problems that caused my vet to surprisingly recommend against tossing my whole wallet to him (more on that later). We petted Charlie as he drifted off to sleep at the vet's office, and we assured Jennifer that they would bury him at Pelican Hill (see my blog, "Parenting and Pets", for more on Pelican Hill).

Not long after that, I'm not sure what came over me. It may have been Becky and Jennifer begging for another dog. It might have been the niggling feeling that I could have done better with Charlie. After all, I was by now a Cesar Millan Dog Whisperer aficionado. We are avid fans. We even took a homeschool field trip to Cesar's Dog Psychology Center, where we hung out and talked shop. He comforted me by agreeing that a fearful dog is the very hardest to rehabilitate...

So I knew the drill - that any dog, given exercise, discipline, and affection (in that order), can become a balanced dog.

Maybe it was hormones or a brief bout of insanity. But for whatever reason, we found ourselves at the Long Beach animal shelter on Valentines Day of 2009, adopting another dog. Brian came along with us. In fact, he drove the car. And paid. To this day, we still argue about this. He claims he was overruled by the three of us. That against his express wishes, we insisted on bringing this dog home. I can't imagine this being the whole truth. Although I suppose the persuasive power of three women against one man must be overwhelming. After reading my first draft of this, Brian says we told him we were taking him for a "Valentine surprise". When he realized we were headed for a shelter (which ended up being TWO shelters), he says he tried to turn around but we all whined and cried until he gave in. And we told him we weren't going home until he picked the one he liked best. His version actually seems legit.

Nevertheless, the deed was done, and we adopted a dog who had beautiful green eyes, wasn't afraid of Brian, and played happily with us in the play yard -- as opposed to other rescue dogs who would just slink around the prison yard suspiciously and pee in every corner.

When we had him vet checked and neutered, they diagnosed kennel cough, so they wouldn't let us take him home until he had been on antibiotics for a week or so, as I recall. That should have been my opportunity to sprint for the chicken exit. But no...

This is one of the first pictures I posted of him on Facebook when he finally came home:

The caption reads: You'd never know by looking at this picture that he has peed all over my living room! Jennifer says he has "Harborlites Green" eyes!

The girls wanted him to have a name from literature. After some discussion, we settled on Bingley, after Mr. Bingley of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. After all, he was a most jolly fellow, always cheerful and completely unspoiled by his wealthy surroundings. I recently posted a picture of him next to his namesake - you can see the resemblance:

I found this picture from April - just two short months after we got him.  The caption reads:  Winking at me because he has a stinkin' eye infection. Why did I get a dog, again?...

As I'm writing this, I'd completely forgotten about that extra vet trip...

Shortly after this, I think, is when Bingley was being walked around at our homeschool park day by one of the young boys, who proclaimed, upon returning him, that he had "swallowed a whole bird skull".  Awesome.

That night, the explosive barfing and pooping started - fluids shooting out of every end.  He was sooooo sick. And in between vomiting and spraying diarrhea, he'd stretch carefully and miserably, as though trying to stretch his abdomen out. I could just picture that little bird beak perforating his intestines as it worked its way through the digestive system.

So in the morning, I took him to the vet. They rushed him to the back room, and then the vet came back and informed me that they'd like to do a CT scan, and ultrasound, IV fluids and antibiotics, and keep him overnight. In short, it would run me about $650 just to find out what was wrong with him.

At this time in our lives, we were living on one very modest income. I was homeschooling Jennifer, and we did NOT have an emergency fund for things like this. Plus, we have a family rule that any trip over $300 to the vet is a one-way trip. I've negotiated extra a time or two, but it's a good rule.

I have never thought of this dog as a "fur child" or treasured family member. So I looked that vet right in the eye and said, "Just put him to sleep. I can't afford this, and I don't want him to suffer."

What happened next was the most surprising and appalling thing ever. And I'm passing this information along to all of you who think your vet is your pet's best friend. Never forget that this is BIG BUSINESS. The vet looked at me and said, "Well, hold on a minute. Let me see what I can do to help you." He disappeared into the back room for an eternity -- JUST LIKE A FREAKIN' CAR SALESMAN going to see his manager.  He came back after a long time with a neatly listed menu of options, in order of importance and starting with lowest cost. The list included something like these options:

1. Stop the spewage (I could do this at home, making sure he didn't keep eating his own vomit, which had apparently happened all night and was causing some of the problem. Dogs are awesome).

2. Guard against dehydration (he said I could do this at home, checking him for symptoms and giving him subcutaneous injections of fluids they'd send me home with).

3. IF that didn't work, take x-ray (which would only be about fifty bucks).

4. If x-ray is inconclusive, proceed to all the butt-expensive stuff he tried to sell me in the first place.

The kicker? All this, he said, could wait 24 hours. In short, if I paid the $65 they wanted just for walking in the door, I could leave and take my chances with Bingley at home. If he wasn't any better in 24 hours, we could start the fluids and move progressively onto the big ticket items.

Sooooo, in short, if the vet knows you're not some animal-worshiping sucker who is going to throw your whole wallet at them when you rush in, you'll receive excellent, appropriate care for your pet, at a reasonable price. This has borne itself out in every interaction I've had with vets since. I'm onto them, and they know it.

Anyway, I took Bingley home and together we hunkered down in a sleeping bag on the living room floor for the night. He slept inside it, at the bottom, and every couple of hours, he'd shakily crawl out, drink some of the water I'd left nearby for him, then dive back to the warmth at my feet.

By the next morning, it was obvious he was going to pull through. Glory be. Total cost: $65 and a whole lot of stress and cleaning products.

This dog has energy. Boundless energy. In true Dog Whisperer fashion, I faithfully walk him at least 2.5 miles every day, while he wears a backpack that's loaded with sand-filled water bottles. This, according to Cesar, doubles his workout. When we get home and I take off the backpack, he still zips around the house as though he just woke up -- like Superman, relieved of kryptonite. I cannot imagine what a spazz this dog would be if I didn't give him this much exercise.  Here he is wearing his backpack and his usual crazed facial expression:

He's also, incidentally, wearing the little blanket we made for him. He used to get cold, being short-haired and a total freak. I simply REFUSE to put clothes on my dog. I find it degrading for canines to walk around wearing tutus and hoodies. So, Brian created a sort of horse blanket from fleece. My friend Danae, seeing this picture on Facebook, hilariously proclaimed him "Dobby the House Elf", and I realized we'd picked the wrong name for him. Here's a picture of his Dobby look:

Our best guess is that he's a miniature pinscher mixed with dachshund. And, as a little dog, he's a strong-willed little jerk. I do NOT, however, allow him to ACT like a jerk. So many owners of small dogs let them snarl and lunge at the leash and bark at other dogs and bite kids. Not my dog. I'm all over him like a drill sergeant to be a good citizen. From the first, I took him just about everywhere with us, and I made sure that he knew how to act in public.

Here he is with my grand-niece, Lola, with whom he is a completely different dog. Totally calm and sweet. Mostly. I never turn my back on him, though...

I call Bingley my "overnight success that took three-and-a-half years". Slowly, so slowly I hardly noticed it, he's become reluctantly compliant to almost my every command. We've gone from needing a muzzle and two assistants to clip his claws -- as he struggled frantically, red-eyed, smacking his muzzle against my arm in an effort to kill me -- to a nervously tense but unmuzzled, submissive dog who'll lie stiffly while I clip his claws, unaided. He just waits for that treat.

I have never seen an animal more driven by the quest for food. He will eat ANYTHING he can swallow.  He doesn't chew things so much anymore. But any food left within his reach is doomed. Including veggies and fruit. And don't get me started on cat poop ("kitty roca") and cat barf. This is why he sleeps in the garage, in a cozy blanket-filled crate. I've spent too many nights and mornings being awakened by his barfing/diarrhea bouts, having to mop up the results of something evil he ate. And if I give him any treat, he acts like a crack addict for the rest of the day, waiting anxiously for his next fix.

Once, for reasons we won't go into here, Brian left a full cup of semi-sweet chocolate chips on our bed. Bingley waited til his back was turned and devoured the entire cup of chocolate AND all of Brian's cookies. Now, as you may know, chocolate is toxic to dogs. Not wanting to spend money on an emergency vet trip (because of course, this happened on a Sunday night), I called the vet. After giving his weight and the amount of chocolate he'd eaten, they recommended I bring him in. I Googled how to induce vomiting in a dog. It suggested using hydrogen peroxide. But, the website warned, there is a risk that the dog will aspirate his vomit and die. I resignedly told Brian this and that we were on our way to the garage to give it a whirl. He replied, "JUST TAKE HIM TO THE F*****G VET."

The vet whisked him "backstage", then returned after a few minutes and told me that they recommended inducing vomiting. However, they warned me, there was a risk that he'd aspirate his vomit and die. Soooo, I coulda just done it at home. For free. Well, at least now somebody else would clean it up.  So, 135-bucks-and-no-dessert-for-Brian later, Bingley came home with an empty stomach. I declined the vet's sweet offer to keep him overnight "for observation".

I think it was shortly after this that I began referring to him as "the last dog I'll ever own." Wait, no. Maybe it was after he ate the crotch out of my favorite pair of panties. Or when he smeared blood all over our cream colored carpet when Jennifer was playing with him using a laser light and he apparently bit his own tongue.

And no one told me about a special problem that little dogs have. Delicately put, his butt leaks. Apparently, small dogs need to have their anal glands periodically "expressed". On the rare occasions when Bingley finally relaxes -- usually while lying on my bed -- this horrendous, fishy smelling brown liquid leaks out of his butt. It's horrifying. Again, we are not a family that has a budget for dog grooming. And I'll be darned if I'll squeeze his bottom for him. I'm told that there are people eager to do this at the pet store, for just a few bucks. But so far, I haven't caved in to the hassle or expense of having this done.

My sister Diana, who is a lifetime dog owner and lover, has said, after watching Bingley with me, "It's like he constantly challenges you." She assures me that it's not DOGS I don't like. It's just that I have had the perfect storm of two dogs in a row that were a complete pain in the butt. She might be right. If I'd known then what I know now, I'd have gotten a great big, couch potato of a dog. A dog who has energy equal to or lesser than mine (which is what Cesar recommends, I learned too late). A dog who's happy to obey me, instead of reluctantly waiting for his chance to wreak havoc when my back is turned. People ask me about Bingley's backpack when we're out walking. "That backpack," I tell them, "is the only thing standing between him and total world domination." And it's really true.  He'll definitely survive the apocalypse. Most likely by killing and eating us, his caregivers.

For now, though, the last dog I'll ever own bides his time, pretending to be "calm-submissive". He watches the Dog Whisperer too, so he knows how to play the game -- for now. But he doesn't have me fooled. Not one bit.