Oh, HELL no.

Yesterday was a full day for the Geriatric Poodle.

In the morning, he found his way off the deck. In the rain. He looked to be lost, so I threw a parka over my bathrobe, slipped on some shoes, and ran out to rescue him. I reached him just as he hunched over to take a dump.

So I stood in the rain and waited. And remembered why I hated living in an apartment.

Finally, he finished his business – and took off running away from me.

I chased him, my bathrobe flapping in the wind, hopefully keeping me decent. Grabbed the dog, got him in the house, and realized his black fur looked very Jeri-Curl-riffic when rain-soaked. Good times.

I thought that was enough doggie adventure for one day, but boy, was I wrong.

Last night, he fell down the basement stairs again.

It was totally my fault – I forgot to the close the door. The guilt is killing me.

He’s fine – a little sore, but ok. I’m a little worse for the wear. Last time, I just heard the thud, thud, thud, rolling behind me. This time, I saw him fly through the air, only hitting the stairs maybe twice before landing in a puddle on the cement floor.

I think the sound I made can best be described as guttural.

He shook himself off and kept on keepin’ on. I couldn’t stop crying.

Mr. Wonderful’s reaction was priceless. The first thing he said was, “Holy shit! He’s one bad motherfucker!”

Ah, yes.

So, we had some chicken liver treats as a reward for nobody killing themselves.

The dogs go nuts for these things. I think Foxie Doxie would do anything asked of him – including hotwiring a car, making meth, or sprouting thumbs – if you promise him a Bil-Jac.

Mr. Wonderful looked at the bag. “Made of real chicken liver, huh?”

Then he eyed me. “How much would I have to pay you to get you to eat one of these things? What’s your price?”

I considered. “Five hundred dollars.”

He guffawed. “Right. What-EVAH. How about 20?”

I’m meeting some girlfriends for dinner tonight and could use the cash. “Ok.”

“What? Seriously? Ohmygod!” He ran to the other room to dig through his wallet.

For some reason, the idea of eating a canine liver treat doesn’t bother me. They don’t smell that bad.

Mr. Wonderful called out from the other room. “I only have $14.”

“Too bad. The deal was 20 bucks.”

Silence.

“Hey honey?” he called in his sweetest voice. “Can I borrow $6?”