When Cassie was a puppy, she was prone to running all over the neighborhood, just eluding my grasp, thinking it was a fun game. One day, she got away in the pouring rain when I was barefoot and she wasn't wearing a collar. After a lively chase around a few blocks while I cursed at her, she stopped half a block from the house, squatted, and took the biggest dump ever. Right in front of a lawyer's office. While the lawyer looked out the window. That same lawyer looked out the window as I, soaking wet and barefoot, carried a mid-sized puppy across the street and back into the apartment. He also watched while I trudged over, soaking wet and barefoot still (shoes? I don't need shoes, y'all. I'm BRITNEY SPEARS.), and picked up dog poop from his lawn in the pouring rain.
So yeah, we've had some really special moments. I've been happy that lately our pet missteps have been in the privacy of our own home. (I don't count the Momo Backlash of Ought-Eight because I DID NOTHING WRONG. I MAY DRAG HIM AROUND AGAINST HIS WILL IN A HARNESS 9 HOURS A DAY UNTIL HE'S DEHYDRATED AND HAS A BALD SPOT, BUT I DID NOTHING WRONG.) Sure, the cat has tried to kamikaze out the window and the other day, the dog wandered into the closet, stepped into a pair of my underwear that had fallen out of the hamper, then got all her feet tangled up in them as she tried to escape/wander around the apartment so that she hogtied herself with my underpants, but these things happened in the privacy of our own home.
I think you sense where this is building to, right?
I opened the apartment door for a second -- a SECOND -- and the cat was off like a shot down the stairs. Fortunately, he's unable to push hard enough on the door at the bottom to escape. Unfortunately the same is not true of the dog, who pushed past me in a cat-chasing frenzy. At this point, I had just woken up and was only wearing a tee shirt that didn't really cover my various, uh, widgets.
The long and short of the story is this: I ended up throwing on whatever clothes I could find (which did not include a bra, sadly) and chasing a ginger dog and marmalade cat around the outside of the house, hissing death threats at them, and fervently hoping all my neighbors were either asleep or still drunk.
It's moments like these that I'm almost happy we have decided to give Cassie to my parents when we move to Detroit. Almost.
At least if I'm running around Detroit half-clothed with a crazed look, it probably just means the job didn't pan out and we've taken to the hobo lifestyle.
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