As I was telling a story a few weeks ago to a friend of mine, she exclaimed, "Sara, you need a blog! You have to write this stuff down! It only happens to you!" How correct she was that, yes, it only happens to me. I don't know about whether or not I need the blog, but here it is, just in case she was right.
And just for Nicole, here's the story that got it all started:
I have a Jack Russell Terrier, named Lily. She is my buddy, partner in crime and toe warmer -- better than any space heater on the market. Lily has been with me through it all, most importantly, several break-ups over the past few years. Of course, this means she has been there for the new guys, too.
Recently, I met a very nice guy, Tate*. Of course, we went out a few times before I invited him over to my house. Upon his arrival, Lily freaked out. She's not great with strangers or unexpected knocks at the door, but she usually gets over it pretty quickly. This was different. She barked, calmed down for a bit and completely freaked out all over again. I can't say that Tate was a huge help in this, as he made no attempt to pet her, talk to her, etc. I don't know, I thought it was odd but maybe that's just me.
Next week, while trying to figure something to do, I suggested to Tate that he come over and I would cook dinner. He agreed and came over. Again, Lily freaked and didn't seem to get over it until I bribed her with a new bone. After that, she was fine. However, during dinner, Tate was telling a story and somehow worked in there that he didn't "agree with having dogs in the house."
Look, I know we are all welcome to our own opinion and that's fine. But, she's not your dog, it's not your house, and if and when the time comes, we'll deal with your issue (though, as you will see, that time won't). I don't need your blessing or permission.
I still wasn't sure about this guy so when he called and asked me out to dinner again, I said yes. Again, same drill when he picked me up. Bark, bark, bark, freak out, freak out. We left, had a very nice dinner and went out for drinks after that. I got home pretty late for a weeknight but Lily was fine. I let her out and then we went to bed.
Next morning, I got up to go to work. I shut the bedroom door like I always do (she's not allowed in there while I am gone). I got home to find Lily acting like she was in trouble. Ears drooping, head hung low, wouldn't let me pet her, the whole deal. For the life of me, I couldn't figure out what she had done. Later that night, I got into bed but she didn't jump in with me, she crawled under it. I soon find out why.
I roll over to get comfortable and roll into a huge wet spot. This damn dog has peed in my bed! Oh yes, at that point I remember that the bedroom door was open when I got home, I just didn't think anything of it at the time. I strip the bed and start a load of laundry, cursing her the whole time. Damn dog.
Next day, same routine -- I shut the door and leave for work.
I get home and the bedroom door is open. This damn dog peed on my pillow while I was at work! I curse her again, remake the bed and throw away my pillows. Damn dog.
Later that night, I spoke with Tate and we decide that it's not really going anywhere and that we aren't going to see each other anymore.
The next morning, I got an early appointment for Lily to see the vet; I'm thinking bladder infection at this point. She hasn't peed in the house in years. We go to the vet, and they take a urine sample for testing. Nope, urine is all good says the vet. Has anything else changed, another dog, new routine, anything at all? I explain to him that I started seeing a new guy and that I had recently been out later than usually. I also explain her behavior around Tate. Ah-ha! Yes, that's it. She's telling you something, he says. Apparently, Lily's just mad at me for being out and didn't like Tate.
I am so glad I spent 100 bucks and got dog pee all over my hand, only to find out that my dog's a brat!
