{June 19, 2012}   6/18/12


Day number two of the “new”, GIANT German Shepard, Sargent.

Sargent, most commonly referred to as “Sarge”, has taken to my Mother, my Father and myself quite well. He whines and cries and carries on if any one of us leaves his sight. I’m not a fan of dogs, but Sarge has grown on me (already, keep in mind, this is only day two). Unfortunate for my parents, I don’t live with them, so when I go home Sarge remains a complete wreck until I return, usually bearing gifts such as dog biscuits or rawhide.

My reasons for not being particularly fond of dogs:

  • They shed, but unlike cats, they leave hairballs the size of month-old puppies- in your shoes, your bed, your call, on all of your furniture and of course, on every floor in every room. (Sarge puts Chow Chows to shame with his hairballs.)
  • They think that everything you do is interesting or involves them, so they become an extension of your derriere (Sarge IS your derriere).
  • Dogs like to poop where you’re sure to find it. It’s like their version of a prank. They do it in the house, on your sidewalk, at the driver’s side door of your car or in the middle of your perfectly manicured lawn. I don’t know Sarge poops, or even if he does, because he goes out, around the corner of the house, disappears for a few minutes and then returns. Always acting marginally happier.

I’m definitely a cat person. In fact, I have every intention of being the old, single, seemingly lonely, cat lady who surrounds herself with one hundred fourteen cats while barricaded in an old, dilapidated house. The neighborhood kids will look at the chipping paint and shudders hanging on by one screw and call me the old witch. This appeals to me very much the more I think about it. I’m not fond of kids, either.

For now, however, I will continue with my immediate plans of moving back in with my parents with my (one) cat and my meager belongings in two weeks so I can go back to school to get my EMT certificate.

Of course, now I’ll have to be armed with a lint roller at all times because Sarge keeps leaving large amounts of evidence of his existence on my uniform. Surprisingly, there are a lot of ninety-five year old “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” victims who are less-than-impressed when you show up to help them wearing a uniform  that is seemingly made from dog hair. People are so finicky these days!


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