It's Oscars time. Somebody wake the Grouch.

Thursday, March 31, 2005

Our dog hates me.

It's true. Our dog, which we have owned for over 3 years now, which we have fed scraps from our table, and given the comfort of our home, hates me. From what I can tell, in her opinion, I am either the Anti-Christ, or his press agent.

The dog herself is a large black labrador retriever/border collie mix, a mixture that dog experts suggest makes for a highly intelligent dog. What they neglect to say is that it makes for an extremely neurotic and paranoid animal as well.

There are two regular greetings I get from our dog: The first is for her to immediately run into the bedroom and hide under my wife's bedside table, where she lives (the dog, not Mrs. Fando) 95% of my time in the house, only coming out to poop, stretch and break wind simultaneously, or stare at me from across the room the way a foraging budgie watches a hungry cat.

The second greeting is to bark loudly at me in annoyance...and then run under Mrs. Fando's bedside table.

I have often theorized that our dog, were she able to speak English, would sound exactly like Will Farrell's impression of Janet Reno.

I have much more to say about this, including a very detailed view of how I think she views the world (Sample - In the Ferrell/Reno voice: I don't trust that man. He's tall, large, and has eyes like a big, fat weasel. He can never love that woman the way I do. She's like the mother I never had...except human, with much less hair and breath that doesn't smell like Beggin Bits.)

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