January 24, 2011; Fucking With the Frost

The first three times I needed Skeeter to do it and bellowed, "Jesus fucking Christ! What is this shit?"

"Look," he said, leaning down to me and wiping the grit and salt from my foot, "the people who live on this street are getting older so they are putting down more and more abrasive so they don't slip?"

"So THEY don't slip?" I snarked.

"Oh! fuck off."

"You know that, theoretically, you are old enough to be the grandfather of a teenager."

"I SAID FUCK OFF!"

"Don't they ever think of dogs and their little pads when they put that crap down?"

"You know, it is fucking minus 20...could we get on with this? I have de-salted your fucking foot three times already and we're only a quarter of the way through the walk."

We went about ten yards farther and I stopped again and lifted my paw for de-salting even though I didn't need it. It's fun to make him my bitch and also he gets a lot colder a lot faster than I do. He dutifully bent over and smacked my paw around to brush out the imaginary salt and grit. This was fun. We walked some more and I pissed and then needed to have a dump so I veered off the sidewalk to go into the snow. He yanked me back, I yanked again toward the snow. He yanked me back again. "Hey! Can I have some privacy!" I barked.

"I'm not mushing through the snow to pick up after you!"

"Oh stop being a pussy and besides, who's fucking watching! You don't have to pick up—"

"—in this neighbourhood you ALWAYS have to pick up! I bet there are six fucking busy-bodies staring through their windows at us right now! And let me tell you this: everyone on this street knows you by your rotten fucking reputation and they would so love to spread the news that I don't pick up after you!"

"Fine! I'll shit on the sidewalk! Just stop talking! You know I can't do it when you're talking! And you're going to have to do my left hind paw again, there's a big hunk of grit and ice between my pads." There wasn't but the combo of him bending over to pick up after me and then bending over—with an old man's grunt—to do my paws was too delicious.

He was really cold and better still his wool gloves were soaking from the paw-cleaning so his hands were really iced up. He was now bitching and moaning so I allowed us to go for a couple dozen more yards before I faked the paw thing again.

A paw too far...

"That's it! You're fucking with me!"

"I am not! Do you have any idea how painful having something between your pads is?"

"Okay...this is what we'll do: I will continue to do de-salt your feet tonight because I feel your pain," there was a strong sarcastic tone now as he went on, "but tomorrow I am going to the fucking pet shop and I'm going to get my faggotty little dog a nice set of pink booties!"

Yikes! I had goofed. "So what you're saying to me is that I have a choice between burning my feet clean off or walking about being laughed at by the whole neighbourhood! This is not going to happen!"

"Then man up, you big sissy!"

"You're a big prick. Get me home! Now! I'm cold!"

I didn't have to tell him twice as he was freezing. When we got in he was cleaning my paws and he said, "Do you regret starting to talk to me?"

"Oh, so much."

"'Cause I have figured you out, right?"

"Oh Lord, you flatter yourself. You'll never figure me out. No. I regret talking because when I was just a little dog you did stuff for me without question but now it's talktalktalktalktalk and negotiation and debate and discussion and you and Boo whingeing and complaining and laying your crap on me. OH...MY...GOD!"

"You're a little ingrate. So...do we go with the booties?"

"No. And I will stop reacting to the ice and salt and grit when you go barefoot with me."

Then he said the nastiest thing you can say to a house dog, "Cosmo managed to get through the winter—"

"—you're a cunt, you know that."

He chuckled and I realized I would have to grin and bear it and it was going to be a long, long winter.