Tag Archives: sun tzu

The Art of War (on dog shit)

4 May

ImageThe sun is shining, the house smells of fresh coffee, the baby is cooing and examining her hands like Hunter S. Thompson on a mescaline trip….so, needless to say, life is good. Our only problem today, the only thing that can change our focus from the smells of fresh cut grass and BBQ, distract us from the promise of a treasure hunt at a nearby garage sale or the kiss of sun on our pasty Oregonian shoulders….the only thing….are the two barking shit ninjas posted up on the couch, waiting, plotting, scheming to launch another sneak attack of baby carrot sized turds in our home.

My beloved dogs, who at one point not that long ago, I would have thrown myself in front of a train for, are now formidable opponents in a game of Dog Shit Battleship. I didn’t like that game when it just involved plastic destroyers and now it’s being played with canine feces and I’m losing. I don’t know how to get the upper hand? Our first mistake was thinking that rescuing a couple of Chihuahua mutts (to be clear, my husband’s idea) was going to end in anything other than a house full of yapping shit machines.  Don’t even get me started on the pi$$. (I hate the word pi$$…but it’s the only word that fits.  I also hate other words that start with ‘p’, like ‘peck#r and pu$$y’. Awful. I love a swear word or a tasty superlative, but if it starts with a ‘p’ I’m likely to cringe).

I don’t understand these little assholes. Rita and Diego have a giant backyard to drop a deuce in; a wide expanse of green to take care of their nasty business. Is the backyard too big?  Does it feel like that part in Dances with Wolves, where John Dunbar Costner crawls up over the ridge to see a million buffalo? Is it just too much land to consider? Do they ponder their minuteness as they venture past the patio? Are they expecting tatonka to charge up and catch them with their pants down? Maybe that’s why they prefer such locations as sticking it to, (literally) sticking a turd to the front door. Diego pushes his tiny b-hole up against the door, craps, and walks away. One or two stick to the door and the rest roll down like those sticky balls you used to get in a box of cereal. When you open the front door, you’re greeted right off the bat by 2/3 of his last crap being scraped across the floor. If that doesn’t work for you, how about right where you will put your feet when you swing your legs out of bed? Too obvious? OK, perhaps on the only portion of brown design on the throw rug, to ensure it’s perfectly camouflaged, like a dog crap duck blind. But my personal favorite, in the baby’s bath chair.  In her chair? The entire yard. The entire house.  But nope, in her chair. Sonsofbitches.

The bath chair was the final straw. Only the baby is allowed to shit in that chair. This means goddamned war. With Sun Tzu as my guide, I will learn my enemy and beat them at their own game. I will stop just short of pooping in their kennel.  Or will I? Only the barking shit ninjas will know.

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