But my remote control victory was short lived. The Electro-Doggy-Shock crushed your Alpha-male ego and it produced so much anxiety that you developed a rash, a skin condition that manifested itself with little suppurating boils and lesions on your back. My wife freaked and called the vet, who in turn consulted veterinarians from California, Nebraska and throughout the Eastern Seaboard. The goddamn vet gave us some antibiotics and a bill for over six-hundred dollars. But the worst was yet to come. The medicine irritated your bladder so you overdosed on water, draining all of the downstairs toilets, and if that wasn’t bad enough, you then pissed all over the floors. It was like having a faction of Al Qaeda based in our house, a mobile shit factory. We never knew where you’d strike next: on the wall next to the door, under the kitchen table, in my shoes, or in the hallway next to the bathroom.

And, then it all stopped.

My wife and I were wondering where we could dump your lifeless body, and then suddenly all of your obnoxious behavior stopped. I couldn’t believe it. You were suddenly pleasant to be around. I couldn’t figure it out until I saw my daughters heading up to their bedroom for their afternoon 4:20. Then, it hit me like a ton of bricks. It started when the girls locked you in the closet and blew smoke under the door until you chilled out. Now you want to get stoned every night. Now, that’s the last thing we freaking need: a dog with a gram-a-day weed habit. The stuff is way too expensive. I finally busted in on the party. You were there sitting in a circle under the Bob Marley poster wearing sunglasses and in a tie-dyed shirt howling to “One Love,” and said, “fucking-a, at least give him the cheap stuff.” They all thought it was pretty funny, damn stoners!

Cost aside, you have been nicer to live with. I found you stretched out on the sofa spaced out, and you are actually pleasant to be around. I still can’t believe the stuff is so damn expensive. It isn’t fair.

Jimmy

Cross-posted at My Ongoing Struggle with Misanthropy: http://jimmygabacho.com/?p=767

Gabacho– according to the Dictionary of the Spanish Royal Academy– is derived from an old Provençal word “gavach,” meaning a person from the foothills of the Pyrenees who spoke incorrectly. These days, it means “outsider,” somebody who just doesn’t fit in.

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