Apocolypse Meow?

parasite - ˈper-ə-ˌsīt, ˈpa-rə-\' (n.)
Etymology: Middle French, from Latin parasitus, from Greek parasitos, from para- + sitos grain, food
Date: 1539
1 : a person who exploits the hospitality of the rich and earns welcome by flattery
2 : an organism living in, with, or on another organism in parasitism
3 : something that resembles a biological parasite in dependence on something else for existence or support without making a useful or adequate return

I think it's important that I start with that definition because it is at the very heart of the nationwide, global, even, crisis at our hands.

In the United States alone, there are an estimated 72 million dogs and 81 million cats spread across roughly 34% of all households, all of which are unknowingly harboring spies, thieves and, with them, the destruction of mankind. I'm talking about pet hair.

"Don't be stupid," you might say. "All mammals have hair; it's science. Did you spend your entire life in a public education system?" As a matter of fact, I did. All but three years. You're missing the point, though.

Think about it. You're a mammal, right? Now tell me this: when you lay down in bed or on the couch, do you leave behind copious amounts of human hair? Chances are very good that you do not, but they, your most trusted companion and 'best friend', cannot help but leave behind these teeming masses. Teeming with what, you ask? With conspiracy. If you own a dog or cat, you know the signs:

--> They're in your bed learning how and when you sleep. Soon they'll know exactly when to strike.
--> They're on your clothes watching your every move, using you to infiltrate even the most secure of locations: hospitals, airports, data-centers. They're learning your behaviors and habits.
--> They're on your phone, listening. Pull off that fancy phone cover you got for Christmas; they're in there.
--> They're even after your money. Just yesterday, I found one in my wallet, sneaking ever closer to that five-spot I've been holding on to since last Thursday.

The worst thing is that your pets don't even know of these nefarious plans; that's the goal of the parasite, to use it's host for its own ends without offering anything in return. Your trusted friend is the vehicle of the end of life as we know it. Soon, pet hair will be everywhere. In every city, every town, in all of our shoes and on every pant leg. Be warned and be vigilant, for we have the instruments of salvation within our reach.

The lost art of divination

My dog did something interesting this morning. Now you all know I have so much going on that I just can't think straight. Cover blown ... another pet-related dog. As if my previous blog didn't outline this fact well enough, animals (and specifically my dog) are gross. They do things that are literally unfathomable in the normally-operating human mind.

For instance, this morning's walk started like all other dog walks. Bailey, nose planted into the ground pulling the very essence of every solid, liquid or gas from it. Me, tugging on the leash to remind her that something much larger and smarter than her was in control and desperately trying to avoid another chicken bone incident. It was cold and running shorts were probably not the best choice, but they were the first thing I pulled out of the dryer and I was told (erroneously) by a voice on the radio -- oh, someone remind me to rant about how annoying radio voices are --that it was 50 degrees outside.

Now, it's not rare for a dog to sniff where other dogs have *left their mark*. We almost expect it. In fact, we almost overlook it, scarcely giving more than a pull on the leash or a strongly spoken *no*. But this is disgusting! Your precious little dog is sticking his or her nose in urine, and they're going to want to shove that nose into your pant leg -- or worse face -- at some point. No, thank you. Question why your dog's nose is wet next time. Anyway, pee is one thing ... but what about that other stuff? That's right ... poop (incidentally one of the most inappropriately hilarious words in any language).

This particular morning, Bailey decided she was an Oracle, and her means of divining the future were the leavings of some other, obviously smaller, dog ... or cat? Either way, here was my dog (who I was not coaxing onward because I wanted to leave something of her own ...), pawing at this previously neatly piled mess; moving a piece to one side, then the other; staring intently at the progress of her activity as if it were going to tell her where some hidden treasure of rotten food might be.

Obviously, I was disgusted upon learning what my dog was doing while my eyes wandered up and down the block. This is one of the things that I thought separated dogs from cats. Cats are always walking around in their own ... whatever ... but not dogs ... not dogs. Even if she had somehow spoken at that moment and given me some glimpse into my own future, as represented by this now-disheveled pile of crap, it would not have softened the blow. She was going to lick that poop off of her feet at some point, and she was going to want to lick me at some point, and her shitty feet were going to want to be on my furniture at some point. This. This is the real future laid out before her. And it's absolutely gross.

The most I've ever spent on dinner for a girl

$135.84

That is the most I've ever spent on dinner for a girl. It was chicken ... I think. The good part of this would be that she came back to my place. The bad news is that (1) she's a dog, literally; (2) she vomited and pooped everywhere, too literally.

Now, when I said that I'm not sure whether it was chicken or not, that's because it was refuse from someone's front yard which, at a glance in the dimly lit dusk sky, strongly resembled a chicken leg bone. I tried to remove it from her mouth. I pinned her down, grabbed her muzzle and tried to pry the foreign object from her mouth, but with no success. She swallowed the anomaly whole. She then had the audacity to whine at me pitifully as if she'd done nothing wrong. This was Thursday night. This same thing had happened before a few weeks prior, so I eventually stopped thinking about it.

Friday night called and music was in the air. I went to see a few friends' bands around town and had a good time. What I came home to was an atrocity. The dog, whose stomach was obviously in full revolt against all things not poo-covered (which I assure you was everything in my apartment prior to 9 pm that night), had unleashed one of the most vile messes I've ever experienced in my apartment. I immediately put the dog outside and sulked back to the defiled room.

I cleaned and cleaned and seemed to do some good, but I knew it wasn't enough. I had to get the big guns in the morning. Rug Doctor to the rescue. For now though, I had to minimize the fallout. So, I blocked my dog ... wait. It seems like I've missed a key point here. Here's a picture of the perpetrator, Bailey:

Okay, back to the story ... I blocked her in the kitchen. She whined a lot. At first, I thought it was because she really didn't like being shut in there. At 5 a.m., I learned that it was really because she had to go again and didn't want to do this inside. You know how I know this? She'd done it again. This time, it was more manageable, both in consistency and location. Poor, poor dog.

This same scenario occurred at 7:30 a.m. when I went to take her on a walk and check on her. This told me that I was dealing with serious business, so I took her to the vet. This was the bulk of the meal cost at about $95. I was actually surprised at how good she did initially, but this didn't last long. She made noises that I've never heard form any animal the moment she realized the doctor's sole interest was not petting her ... But, she survived.

I was worn out, but this wasn't over. I picked up the Rug Doctor and got to work. This part was surprisingly easy. Also easy - whatever the vet gave my dog totally worked and she was feeling better. I left the house for a while, just to get away and hang with a few friends, completely convinced that I was coming home to another awful event of Bailey's bodily fluid Olympics, but I was wrong. Another few hours removed from the nightmare of Friday night.

Sunday passed with more of the same, so I'm happy to report Bailey is back to normal, mostly, and that I seem to have survived what I can only hope is the worst thing I can expect as a dog owner.

Please, God, let this be the worst thing this dog ever does. Or, at least the grossest.