My name is Stacey. I am a former sorority girl-turned law student and I have a small white dog. I sometimes have blonde hair. I am aware of what a cliche this makes me.
However, I’m sure that Elle Woods’s dog, Bruiser, was much better behaved than my little monster (and not in the good Lady Gaga kind of way ). No, I am the proud owner of the worst behaved dog on the planet. She might look sweet and cuddly.
But she’s actually the worst dog on the planet. Her biggest problem? Listening. You want her to come inside? Not gonna happen. Ask her to sit? She’ll look at you like you’re mental. She knows zero tricks. Her saving grace? Did you see her face? She’s cute. That’s about it.
I lied. She does know one trick. Escaping. She’s like a furry little Houdini. No space that she can’t find her way out of.
Take my backyard for example. It’s completely fenced in with a large six-foot wood frame. For most animals this would present a problem. Not Maggie. She has found little crevices and cracks in the fence to dig her way out. I don’t know why she wants to escape so badly. She has a preeeettty good gig at Casa D.
Except she clearly doesn’t think so. She escaped a few weeks ago (I tweeted about it) and I was pissed. I ruined a lovely pair of dress pants and killed a few of my neighbor’s bushes and THEN I had to give Miss Mag a bath (which she HATES).
Today, as I was cleaning the bathroom, I let her outside. Stupid me. I went to check on her and she was gone. So I threw on a pair of shoes (my favorite flip flops. Yes, I’m aware it’s November. Shut up) and sucked it up to go look after her.
My neighbors very likely hate me. I feel like I’m always traipsing into their yard, looking for my stupid dog. today, no different. I walked through the icky, muddy swale and climbed over their recently placed plastic netting fence (to keep THEIR dogs out of the icky very back, natch, snagging my clothes on branches and ensuring that nothing back there can actually GROW by stomping on them. All while I’m screaming “MAGGIE MAGGIE!” at the top of my lungs, which, if you paid attention before, you know would be useless because she doesn’t respond when she hears her name. At this point I have now completely ruined my pedicure and manicure, little burrs and branches are stuck in my hair and allllll over my leggings (I’m still picking them out) and I’m still minus a ten pound furry ball of misery (ok, she’s not a ball of misery. But I was pissed at her). I’m now running through random people’s backyards, tripping all over myself, branches hitting me in the face and tearing up my leggings (yes, they are now pretty much in shambles) and reaaaaallly mad that my nail polish is totally ruined. I FINALLY see Maggie and she sees me. However, she thinks its now a game, so I am looking like an asshole, chasing my (now muddy) dog in a stranger’s backyard, screaming at her to stop.
I’ll let you pause with that visual: Stacey, looking like a hot hot mess, burrs and mud in hair, ripped leggings, smudgy gross manicure and yelling at her little white dog to stop.
Finally, after some more yelling, I finally catch her and try to figure a way back to the house without hopping over a large fence, dog in hand (because there was NO way I was letting her down). I realize I have to go back through my neighbor’s yard (the one filled with mud and burrs and branches). I grumbled through, telling Maggie what a bad girl she is, and I trip. Yup. I TRIP. I end up on my ass in the mud. Getting up, my hair gets caught in a tree and I’m screaming. Maggie, thinking I’m hurt, starts barking. We are making quite the scene. I de-tangle myself (luckily Maggie did not run away this time) and in the process of trying to hop over the plastic netting, I BREAK MY FLIP FLOP.
RIP, flip flops. I’ll miss you.
And, of course, once she’s safely back inside, what’s the first thing she does?
Stands by the backdoor, begging to be let out.
Yeah, I don’t think so.
Thanks for advice, Mag.