The Verdict Is In

I told you so.

I’ve been telling you for years.

If you know me in real life, for YEARS I have been telling you that I have a bad dog.

Here’s his mug shot, as he wears the Cone of Shame:

Deacon D. Dawg has been trouble since Day One. For the first three years of his life, he did nothing but ingest anything and everything he could get his mouth on. And then he would spend the days following a binge in a terrible bulimic purge cycle of throwing up to the point that he couldn’t quit throwing up, and needed intervention from the vet to NOT die of dehydration. (Why we kept him alive? One of those unanswerable questions for the ages, I guess.)

He has eaten socks, knee hi hosiery, and more socks, gloves, hair scrunchies, used feminine hygiene products.

He steals the kid’s toys, and has eaten every kind of plastic toy that China has ever produced, to the point of us dubbing him a plastivore. He has uprooted trees in a nervous frenzy to demonstrate his retrieval prowess when company comes, and has brought home countless box turtles to devour. To Deacon, a box turtle is like a box of chocolates: crunchy on the outside, chewy on the inside.

He has eaten and rolled in every kind of animal dropping native to Middle Tennessee.

Back when we had better access to the creek where we used to live, he has marinated himself in creek water, dipping seven, eight, ten times a day, to the point that the odor from his neck and collar were so disgusting, that we named him Mr. Stenchy.

Really, I ask you: Is this charge I bring, that my dog is a bad dog, is it wrong?

Well, in his defense, and it is a paltry defense at best, Deacon has one good thing he occasionally does: if the paper that we get on Saturdays and Sundays is thrown inside the electric dog fence, he WILL retrieve the paper, and bring it to us intact. And while this ability to retrieve the paper is a job that brings Deacon’s retriever heart the greatest doggy joy, the downside is that if the paper is NOT thrown inside the electric fence, he will stand at the end of the driveway and bark, and bark, and bark his fool head off, awaking my neighbors on their one day of the week to sleep in. So, if you let him out on a Saturday or Sunday morning, you either have to be fully dressed, or feeling REALLY lucky that day to take the risk that the paper might be inside his fence boundary.

So, anyway, yesterday morning, the jury came back on the charge I have been making for years: DeakieBoy is a BAD DOG.

And the verdict is:

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