There’s a Monster in my house.
She has earned her name.
I rescued her from a hoarding situation when she was 7-months-old. She was emaciated, scared to death, shaking uncontrollably, and confused.
And then, over time, we met our real dog.
She is absolute proof that dogs have senses of humour.
She thinks it is hilarious to charge out the front door when someone is going in or out and “play” keep away (she keeps away from you) in the middle of a busy road.
She caused me enormous embarrassment once when I was in such a panic that she was going to be hit, I ran to the fridge to get something to coax her back, and all I could find was a whole roast chicken I was planning for supper.
I believe it remains the talk of the town that some half-dressed plumpish woman was seen throwing an entire chicken at a dog in the road. (She took it out to the middle of the road to eat it.) Traffic stopped because drivers couldn’t laugh hysterically and drive at the same time.
Speaking of food, Monster adores it, and she thinks anything on a plate belongs to her.
Don’t look away for a second while eating your lovely beef Wellington with garlic mashed potatoes and green beans, or else you will be left to wonder if the gourmet meal was a figment of your imagination. ( I discovered, with my bare foot, a few hours later that beans and Monsters don’t go well together!)
Monster could have several editions of “Dog Shaming” books published in her honour.
Did I mention she drives? Well, not intentionally.
Recently I was wondering why the love seat felt so lumpy, so I removed the cushion and discovered four doggy toys, ten bones, two cheese wrappers, three popsicle wrappers, a fork, a hammer, a cat food can, a piece of a photo frame, and old gum underneath it.
Today she got into a brand new box of 60 band-aids. I don’t know how she managed it, but she presented with about 25 of them all over her (which she just might need if she keeps this up!).