I’m done having a dog. I really am. Had 24-year-old me seen what 40-year-old me would have to do with my Chihuahua now; the adorableness of carrying a little dog in a pink purse would have lost its allure real fast. There have been times when Chichi’s baths have left me heaving while my eyes watered up but this took it to a whole new level.
Over the past week, I noticed Chichi has been unable to go #2 as usual. Because she’s 1,000 years old, she would just let the turd dangle from her hair, walk on and leave me to pull it out. Thank you sire.
‘Fair enough, I deserve this,’ I would think since I have not given her a hair cut or bath in like 6 months.
Thursday left me crying though, by the bathtub in fetal position and I’m not exaggerating. When I came home from work and walked inside my house, my nose was met with a pungent smell. As I walked through the hallway into the kitchen/great room, poop smears had been left all over the floors. It was like a mad man had come to my house and smeared messages in fecal matter. I knew a shave and a bath were eminent.
Chichi knew what was going on. She suddenly began to walk away like I do when the nurse tells me it’s time to get blood drawn. Your mind tricks you into thinking your invisible and if you walk away quietly enough, you’ll get away with murder. I was having my blood drawn and Chichi was getting a shave.
Now I don’t blame her for not wanting a shave. I’m not a master stylist. In fact, my shave jobs are on par with a blind woman….without hands, just using her feet to shave her beloved pet.
Once I gathered all necessary tools, I headed out to the front porch because I felt all my neighbors should watch this train wreck unfold. There were families walking by with toddlers and senior citizen couples, meandered down the street. Meanwhile, I’m lifting up Chichi’s tail to reveal a spider web of fur and shit, roughly 2″ in thickness.
“Fuck Chichi!” I belt out, looking over to realize my neighbor who is a pastor, was getting out of his mini van. I raised my scissors and nodded in his direction as if this was an acceptable way to acknowledge one’s neighbor.
“Oh My God, Oh My God, Oh My God, Oh My God,” I began to say in a high pitch nasally voice, as I cut out a mixture of fur and shit. This was in between the dry heaving that was coming fast and furious now.
“Well, that’s not gonna make it,” I said as I wiped shit from the scissors onto a rug I had brought outside, Chichi had shit on. In fact, the scissors weren’t going to make it either.
After cutting out an unexplainable amount of hair, and shaving her to the best of my ability, I threw the scissors, fur, shit, and rug all in the dumpster. By now, Chichi was doing her invisible man walk again, down the sidewalk but being 578 years old, she was no match for me. I scooped her up and headed to the bathtub.
After 30 minutes in the tub, I put Chichi on a beach towel, sat against the cool wall and cried. Yes, I’m a wimp, sue me. While I cried, Chichi added the cherry on top by shaking her fur and drenching me in dog water. This made me cry harder and left me wondering what God I had pissed off to deserve this.
Needless to say, when Chichi meets her maker, we will not be getting another dog.