May 1, 2009; Oh-oh

Awaiting my fate

Oopsie! I may have gone too far with the Mooks this time. 

I had had two days of good behaviour, according to them, when, yesterday morning, Mook B was not getting me outside as quickly as I might have liked and, also, had left the door to his bedroom opened. So I did what I felt had to be done: I peed on the bed again.

What I hadn't bargained for is that Mook B is at the end of his rope. Not a very calm person at the best of times, Mook B's work as a teacher is driving him up a wall, as we come to the end of the session (his students seem to be a real bunch of little assholes) and as president of his professional association he is also going crazy as he has a tendency to micro-manage. ("If I don't do it, who will!" he's always bellowing to Mook A who gives him a hard time for not resting enough.) Anyway, it was clear first from B's reaction, then A's that I may have pushed them both to the limit.

First, for the rest of the morning, B wouldn't even look at me and when A got up to pee and I did my usual song and dance to "earn" a place in his bed for a bit, B ratted me out and said, "He hasn't been good," and I was left to do my song and dance alone, like some poor loser at a party who plays air-flute to Jethro Tull albums 'cause no one will talk to him.

The silent treatment was bad enough, but the conversation was enough to curl my hair. A: "I think we better consider the fact he may not be the dog for us." B: "But we've grown attached to him!" A: "Yes, that's why we should move quickly before we grow too attached."

Now this is a catastrophe because I've now broken these guys in...or thought I had. They do pretty much what I want when I want them to and if I'm vaguely cooperative I get a cookie. So for the rest of the day I did my nice-nice...to the nth degree. But none of the usual tricks—singing, dancing, chasing about the house—were washing and that evening the hideous discussion went on. A: "He's driving you crazy and we can love him to pieces but if you have a burn-out because you're forced to take time out to wash sheets on top of all your work then he's more trouble then he's worth." B: "All I have to do is remember to close my bedroom door—" A: "—but you don't remember and you never will. He's ruined your bed about six times and look! look!"—he pointed to the open bedroom door—"You're still doing it! So it can't possibly work!"

Then they were discussing what they would do; if they had a friend who might like to take me and how much it would break their hearts but, let's face it, they have to be realistic. Mook A was adamant that he was not willing to watch B have a breakdown no matter how much he loved me and how much B loved me. "But I think we need a dog," B said, almost crying. A: "We can always get another dog; an older, calmer dog." But then B said, "Then we'd be in mourning again in—what?—four or five years?" A said, very gently and softly (the fucker!!!!!!!): "Yes, but we saw some nice older dogs at the pound when we went to get him...trained dogs...calm dogs. Maybe they wouldn't be as much fun, but they also wouldn't be as destructive and they'd still curl up with you in bed and on the couch, you know."

Oh my God...this sounds for real! They're talking about another dog like I'm already half-way out the door.

Tell me they're bluffing. They're bluffing, right? Say they're bluffing...