Red Rover Red Rover send Dozer right over
I’m hanging up clean clothes in my closet and look at the small collection of shoes that line the walls. I realize there are far less pairs than there used to be. This has nothing to do with my great cleanup, and everything to do with Dozer, the furry love of my life.
There’s nothing unique about the fact that I love him.
He was born, he was adorable and I made him mine. Things started out pretty easy enough. He was quick to house train and although he ate an array of things even a garbage disposal couldn’t handle, he never ruined anything precious to me.
I do still miss a particular pair of cream suede high heels that I’d only worn once, but hey, I go absolutely nowhere now, where the shoes would come in handy.
Despite the first few years he actively tried to kill me, Dozer has become a nonnegotiable part of my life and here’s some conversations we’ve had. They most surely cemented our relationship for the long haul.
When I still lived in an apartment, I had to follow Dozer around the property for a good twenty minutes before he would do his business. It became a good time for me to mindlessly wander around, thinking about what I’d eat next or whether or not mimes were a real thing (I’ve never seen one in person, so I highly doubt it).
Suddenly, Dozer said, “Holy shit, there’s a squirrel,” as he took off towards the tiny epitome of evil that is scientifically known as sciuridae, but to me, little assholes.
Obviously, I wasn’t paying attention and was lurched forward by the leash attaching his huge head to my arm. The squirrel headed for a small tree and Dozer headed right for it.
Another fun fact, I don’t dress appropriately for occasions, poop patrol included. I was wearing thin, pink striped pajama pants, entirely too big for me. My bottoms inched down my legs with every shuffle step I took to keep up with Dozer’s pulling me.
“Fat ass, stop running,” I screamed at him, clawing with one hand for the waist of my pants to try to pull them back up. We made it about ten feet across the lawn with my jiggly, granny pantied buttocks out and about for the afternoon stroll, pajamas down around my ankles.
“What’s wrong with you,” I asked once we stopped at the base of the tree, Dozer yelling for the squirrel to get it’s punk ass down there right now.
The squirrel made was just hanging out, staring me in the face.
I was beyond any shame at that point, so I looked around, didn’t see anyone and proceeded to pull up my bottoms.
“Seriously mom, you have the speed of a meth head on their third day of being awake,” said Dozer.
“You don’t even know what meth is, jerk,” I said.
“Candy?” he asked. “Look at that, he’s just up there now, mocking me. Why do you have to keep me on this stupid leash thing anyway, where the fuck am I going to go, you feed me for crying out loud.”
“Just….just, get in the house, now.”
This first scenario was the least painful of stories I have when it comes to Dozer and his quest to push me to my dog owning limits. A couple weeks later, he went to a house party with me.
“Why are we here mom, this is stupid, there’s too many people who aren’t even giving me any food,” Dozer said.
I said, “Look, I can’t leave you home because you insist on eating my freaking tampons, so that’s why you’re here. I myself, am here to visit with friends, while drinking beer, because mommy drinks way too many beers by herself and occasionally it’s nice to blackout in front of people for a change.”
“Well, you’re not even doing it right, I have yet to see you sniff anyone’s ass,” said Dozer, his black spotted ears against his head, letting me know he wasn’t at all amused.
At one point, I went outside to smoke (yeah, I know it’s disgusting, I know I should quit, I’m very aware). I took Dozer with me and sat down on the cement stoop, beer in one hand, leash in the other.
Without warning, a rabbit ran by, which was way more fun for Dozer to chase than sitting his ass right where he was supposed to. Unfortunately, yet again, I was still attached via leash to the 100lb douche, that is Dozer.
I wasn’t going to use my beer holding hand to stop the trajectory of my face towards the pavement, so the space between my nose and upper lip scraped against the concrete as he pulled me forward.
“Dozer.What.The.Actual.Fuck,” I said, through slurred, bloody pants.
“Oh, my God, it’s getting away you twat!” Dozer yelled, looking at the white tail trail off into the distance.
“You asshole, look at my face…why would you do that,” I asked between tears.
He sat down and stared at me. “Look, I gave you forewarning, I clearly went rigid, zoned in on my target and took off, what was I supposed to do, just sit here while that hot piece of ass ran in front of me?” he asked.
“Yes, you dick, that’s exactly what you were supposed to do, just sit there like a good dog,” I said.
He licked my face and lay down, then tilted his head to the side and said,
“Wait, what happened, why are you bleeding?”
I sat on the couch one quiet night and Dozer looked at me yet again.
“Haha, you look like Hitler,” he said. I had a dark scab on my upper lip and it looked a lot like a mustache.
“Hey remember that time, when I was going crazy in the apartment, just all running in circles, tearing it up like a boss,” he asked.
“Yes, why would you even bring that up,” I replied.
“Well, I was just thinking how, when I was all crazy and I went to jump on the couch, you thought your face would stop me….and it didn’t,” he said and chuckled some more.
“Of course I remember it, it was like a week before you turned me into the Fuhrer incarnate,” I said. “This crap has got to stop, your forehead put my tooth through my bottom lip and now it’s permanently scarred. I had to go to the ER for that, you shithead.”
He looked at me, eyebrows all crinkled up.
“Yeah, I was just thinking how I’m happy you didn’t give me away after that,” he said.
“Mom, when I think about you, you make me feel like ice cream makes me feel, oh and when I eat garbage, it also makes me think of you. I don’t know what that feeling is called, but I like it….also, when you’re gone, my belly hurts….do you think I’ll feel like that forever,” he asked.
“Shut up and roll over I said.”
He splayed his legs while on his back and I rubbed his stomach. Then I sang our little song.
“It’s peanut butter belly time, peanut butter belly time,” I sang.
“Where you at! Where you At…Owrr rraarr!” he sang back.