Dakota, the Death Screaming Dog

In my Marley and Me post I wrote that I had bad dogs. Did you catch the “s” at the end? That means more than one bad dog. However, I only mentioned exhibit A, Toby, the rose-bush, collar eating, almost inside-out frying pan escaping dog. I really do hope he is happy chilling with the biker.

Shortly after doing the big victory-dog-gone dance, that little voice inside my head started saying I need a dog. (Who are you little voice??? Why are you little voice???)

So after Toby, I got another dog, actually I got three more dogs, just not at the same time. Next dog, exhibit B., Dakota. Cute, adorable, fluffy and small. Small poop. Big dog, big poop, small dog, small poop. Big difference.

Dakota was a great dog. Lots of people thought so, mostly people who didn’t know him. They’d see him on his leash, gush things like, “Oh look at the cutsey wutsey little doggie woggie.”

People who knew Dakota, hated him. He barked. And, if he didn’t bark, he whined. Actually he didn’t whine he screamed. He could perfectly replicate the sound made by Wesley in the movie The Princess Bride when they suck all the life out of him. And I don’t think he ever saw the movie. . .

He made this sound to torment me. No other reason. And when I went outside and told him to stop, he got louder. If I tried to go to him to make him stop, he would run and scream louder. Then I would run faster, even if I was in my pajamas and had serious bed head.

Then people passing by would hear the dog death scream and yell things like, “Hey what are you doing to that cute little dog?” or, “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?”

I would tell the helpful spectator where he could get off, then recruit my children to help. Now we are all running around the backyard with brooms, fly swatters, light sabers and the spatula from the bar-b-q grill, while I am wondering if I can get the dog in the house before the Humane Society or CPS shows up.

I could look forward to repeating this ritual every time the dog needed to go out. Remember, small dog, small bladder.

(I should interject here that if you do decide to get a yappy, death screaming dog, or actually any kind of dog, don’t give it a person’s name. Big mistake. You don’t want to be yelling things like, “get that rose bush out of your mouth Molly.” Or, “how many times do I have to tell you not to pee on that bush Sam?”