Me: “Let’s go.”
Gracie (ecstatic): (Yeah let’s go, let’s go right now, Look! I’m running around in circles, oops I crashed into the coffee table, put on the leash put on the leash, get a bag, you need a bag, put on the leash.)
Me: “Settle down, dammit.”
Gracie: (We’re on a walk. A long walk. And we’re going swimming.)
Me: “Just around the block, tonight. It’s too hot out here.” (I’m not telling her she’s not going swimming because, in order to do so, I would have to say the word ’swimming’, which would get her going big time.)
Gracie: (I need to pee. I need to smell peepee to pee. Where is the peepee? Not here, not here, not here not here not here nothere notherenotherenothere…)
Me: “Just PEE already, wouldja? Why do you need to smell something frigging NASTY before you can go? There’s dog pee everywhere on this street! You need a whiff of something tres piquant to get you started, or WHAT?”
Gracie: (notherenotherenotherenotherenothere….WHOA! What is THAT? That’s no little dog marked that spot. This is RARE! This is CHOICE! I’m definitely peeing here. My pee says, “I’m Gracie, I live in the Cape Cod next to Sam, and I’m 85 pounds of pure seething fury. Stay away from my Dad’s frigging house. Oh, and I pissed on your lawn.”)
Me: “Thank you. I hear your dog sense of smell is like 1000 times as good as humans. If that’s true, why do you stick your snoot right in the middle of the stuff? Oh, and how do you control your bladder, so that you can stop and go 50 times in 20 minutes? And do you get some kind of visual from, you know, poop, in addition to what must be the overwhelming scent? Does the backyard look like a minefield to you? You’re not even listening, are you?”
Gracie: (…notherenotherenotherenotherenotherenothere…)
Me: “Why can’t you just walk around like a regular dog?”
Gracie: (Why do you bring that bag full of you-know-what back to our house all the time?)
