My elder sister, E---, got a dog.
She'd had a cat, Mitzi, who was tiny and sweet, with the prettiest, greenest eyes I've ever seen. Mitzi was hit by a car in September. As of Christmas, E--- had recovered enough to want another cat.
"I want a cat," she said. "I want to get another cat." All during her stay, she let everyone know how much she wanted another cat.
So she got a dog. A six-month old rotweiler mix. From Petco, which is kind of like getting him at Wal-Mart. He was a rescued animal who'd been abused. How, they don't know. Or won't say. Petco had a "vet" check him out for them and they took the dog home and named him Max.
They're not planning on having him see a real vet any time soon, in spite of the history of abuse and his questionable background.
He's sweet and quiet and doesn't jump on you or sniff your crotch or bark or chew on your stuff if it's left anywhere remotely close to the floor. But he will, once he gets used to being here and being somebody's dog and not getting punished for it.
And they're not making any moves to get him professionally trained.
I'm not big on the not-peeing-and-pooping-in-designated-box thing. The walking the dog in rain and mud or else I get a puddle or worse on the carpet is not an entertaining thought. I'm not big on dog smell, either, which is kinda icky and permeates every room a dog habitates. Pet with B.O. There's something very wrong about that. I can handle fur, which can be rolled up with one of those rollers you can buy in bulk from Bed, Bath & Beyond, but body odor is another thing entirely. I'm definitely not happy with wet dog smell, which is super-foul. Like, gagging foul.
I like dogs, just not living with them. Especially when they haven't been properly trained. I'm definitely not the best choice to be the day-sitter for a six-month old dog who doesn't know not to defecate in the house.
This very well might be my last extended visit to my sister E---'s outside of Philly. We'll see.
She'd had a cat, Mitzi, who was tiny and sweet, with the prettiest, greenest eyes I've ever seen. Mitzi was hit by a car in September. As of Christmas, E--- had recovered enough to want another cat.
"I want a cat," she said. "I want to get another cat." All during her stay, she let everyone know how much she wanted another cat.
So she got a dog. A six-month old rotweiler mix. From Petco, which is kind of like getting him at Wal-Mart. He was a rescued animal who'd been abused. How, they don't know. Or won't say. Petco had a "vet" check him out for them and they took the dog home and named him Max.
They're not planning on having him see a real vet any time soon, in spite of the history of abuse and his questionable background.
He's sweet and quiet and doesn't jump on you or sniff your crotch or bark or chew on your stuff if it's left anywhere remotely close to the floor. But he will, once he gets used to being here and being somebody's dog and not getting punished for it.
And they're not making any moves to get him professionally trained.
I'm not big on the not-peeing-and-pooping-in-designated-box thing. The walking the dog in rain and mud or else I get a puddle or worse on the carpet is not an entertaining thought. I'm not big on dog smell, either, which is kinda icky and permeates every room a dog habitates. Pet with B.O. There's something very wrong about that. I can handle fur, which can be rolled up with one of those rollers you can buy in bulk from Bed, Bath & Beyond, but body odor is another thing entirely. I'm definitely not happy with wet dog smell, which is super-foul. Like, gagging foul.
I like dogs, just not living with them. Especially when they haven't been properly trained. I'm definitely not the best choice to be the day-sitter for a six-month old dog who doesn't know not to defecate in the house.
This very well might be my last extended visit to my sister E---'s outside of Philly. We'll see.
