Not An Admission Of Guilt

Chronologically I’m 41. Biologically, I feel 53. I should feel better than this. I take care of myself. I run daily, I eat well, and get decent rest. Ok, that last part is bullshit, but I do run and eat well.

In terms of maturity, I’m 7. Allow for me to provide evidence.

I have dog. Big fucking deal, right? It kind of is. She’s gorgeous. I’d venture she’s better looking than you are. Probably smarter too. She’s a 3 yr. old German Shepard/Siberian Husky mix. Even doing nothing on the couch she is cuter than I am. I’m staring at her now, envious, as she lifts her hind leg towards the ceiling to “clean” her privates. I think she’s just showing off. I’m pretty sure she just winked at me. Bitch.

Her eyeliner is better than anything I’ve ever managed

She and I run together on most mornings. I take her for about 5 miles. You would think that would put me in good favor with her. One might assume that I may even be her favorite.


This bitch is resolutely devoted to my husband. Are you fucking kidding me?! Doesn’t the 5 am wake call earn me any cred with you? I keep giving of myself in this relationship and I get shit in return. Literal shit, every morning.

Oh, sure, I get the occasional wet face kiss, but she is his dog. I’ve often thought she must find it humorous, my going out of my way to earn her approval, only to have to pick her crap up in little bags and run with it. “Who owns who, dumbass?” she thinks.

It’s standard operating procedure that at 3:30 am she holds the cat hostage in its own litter box. We have an enclosed box; one that keeps all that litter and stink inside its four little wooden walls. It’s a shit sauna. It’s a shit sauna we keep in our bedroom because we’re mental giants.

Eventually I get up to calm her herding instinct. That’s what I’m going to call it, “herding instinct.” Really, she’s a just a fucking asshole with control issues. I don’t know what that’s like at all. *emphatic eye roll*

I haul her off the cat just long enough for the cat to escape, bounding across the floor and onto our bed, dragging litter clumps onto my pillow. Well, isn’t that just fucking great?

I look into the dog’s eyes. I tell her very calmy that I’m going to return her to the shelter if she doesn’t lay the fuck down and start acting right. “Please, for the love of God, River, lay the fuck down and shut up or I’m returning you to the shelter and they’ll change your name back to Monica.”

This is not helpful. Not at all.

Now she’s pacing.


Maybe she has to pee.

I get up to let her outside. Once outside she immediately lays down. Wait, what?! Why couldn’t you do that shit INSIDE?! Fuck you! I can’t leave this asshole outside though; she’ll hop the fence. I hate this dog so much right now. I may change her name myself.

I eventually lure her back into the house with the can of whipped cream. I’m still smarter than you, bitch. This shit works every time. I don’t care what she does at this point, it’s after 4 am. My husband is snoring deeply in the other room. I may return him to the shelter, too. This is fucking bullshit.

The cat has taken ownership of my pillow. I hate everyone. Also, every part of my body hurts right now. My calves are tight, and I feel like Quasimodo waking from an afternoon nap after too many martinis. My back is wrecked. Either my arms have been amputated or there is a severe lack of blood flow, and my brain is just waiting for things to catch up. Can’t say the outlook is optimistic in either case.

I just want to go back to bed.

My husband is snoring still and thoughts of murder wash over. No. We don’t have a life insurance policy yet and I haven’t practiced crying on command enough yet. There’s still work to do.

5 am and it’s time to run but I’m mad at the dog so I sit up in bed and gaze down at the floor where she lay. “I want you to know that this is your own fault. This bullshit behavior you pulled is why you can’t have nice things,” and I eventually drift back off to sleep, content in the knowledge that I told that bitch off. I won.

The alarm goes off at 5:45 and the fury of a dozen tiny Chihuahuas fills me.

I shove my husband.

“Turn it off!”

His alarm goes off again 12 mins later.

“I will kill you, turn it off.”

He mumbles, still coming out of sleep. “Huh?”

“Um, can you please turn that off, sweetie?” I say.

Our morning routine completed; we say our goodbyes. I give the dog a dirty look before I leave the house. I tell the cat to stay the fuck off my pillow. I spend the first two hours at work Googling life insurance companies and facial lie detection cues.

Preparation is the best defense.

This is where a normal person would tell you that they loved their husband and pets. Yeah, I’m not that person.

2 thoughts on “Not An Admission Of Guilt

  1. Love River, quite iffy on you, the control issue freak is you u not River. It was your choice to pick up shit for however many years River is alive, I’d say it was a wise move. You have a partner and a true confidant… Take it for what it’s worth but u got more than a dog, its 4ever person.


  2. “I may return him to the shelter”. The dog would get adopted right away. The husband would probably rot in his cell. Sounds harsh until you compare it to murder…

    Liked by 1 person

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