Tantrum Warehouse
Tact Free Since 2003

Bone Thievery

We had family weekend this weekend. This really means J and I didn't leave the house and didn't want to talk to other people. I love those kinds of weekends.

We are getting more this way. We get stressed out and over-worked and angry and we retreat away from people. Honestly, we cannot be expected to get along with anyone but each other. And we only get along because we are legally obligated.

Saturday night we had a lovely evening. J broiled chicken, we talked about politics and football and what color we would like to paint the living room. We went upstairs and watched CNN in our bedroom. We made fun of Darla as she begged for her dinner. We told her "Mommy and Daddy are never feeding you again. We decided to eat Darla-dogs instead of feeding them." This sounds cruel but since we say it in a sing-songy voice with smiles on our faces she doesn't know. We are only amusing ourselves. Then, we notice that Buster is missing.

Like parents of small children we rush out to look for him. He cannot be trusted. Unlike a toddler we are not worried that he will pull a heavy object onto himself or drink bleach--we are more worried he will climb on top of a large appliance and get stuck.

J finds him downstairs on top of the kitchen table.

The bellow that follows shook the walls.

Instantly Buster is upstairs, in our bedroom. He doesn't seem me. This is why he spits the chicken bone he has stolen across the room when I yell his name.

My scary mama voice works really well on him. I am stunned that he didn't pee on the floor.

In case you don't know, dogs cannot have chicken bones. They are too brittle and weak and will splinter off when they bite into them. They can swallow pieces that will cut their throat or choke on them. Small dog owners spend too much of their lives worrying about chicken bones.

I take it from him and go to throw it out downstairs. That is when J and I realize that there is another bone missing. We search everywhere for it. In his crate, in my closet, underneath the couch cushions. Nothing. When he is done with his dinner we covertly follow him around hoping that he will lead us to it. He digs around a couple of places, but he seems as bewildered as we are. He is a brilliant thief but too stupid to remember where he hid the booty.

Everywhere in the house I smell chicken. We still haven't found it. I am convinced we will find it when it rots and the skin as fallen off the bone.

Damn dog.


Yesterday we spent on the couch in the living room. We had comforters and pillows. We watched football and CNN. J is obsessed with the Iowa caucus. I explain the whole system to him and finally have to call my mother to tell him what they are like. I was not of voting age when we moved from there. We get overly excited about several of the candidates, almost all of whom we like much better than Al Gore. Many candidates spend much of the day in Waterloo, where my father is from. We were there this summer so I keep telling him "you have been there" "that is right by Bud's house" etc.

I feel like I need a pocket protecter just for writing that story down.

7:04 a.m. :: comment ::
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