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God, there really never is a dull moment around here. And here I was thinking that moving to the country would make my life a little less dramatic and riduculous. Evidently, the drama is attached to me, not my surroundings. DMIL came down for the weekend, to see the Gomorrha (sp? whatever) to which I dragged her only (living) son. Against my wishes, she brought her two dogs. (We've gone over how much I dislike dogs, and I've already apologized. I know this makes me a horrible person, let's move on.) They're labs, Mousse is chocolate (original, eh?) and Ichabod is yellow. Mousse is one of only two dogs on the planet that I don't hate. He has hip dysplasia, arthritis, and cancer. He's mellow. Ichabod, on the other hand, is mentally challenged. He eats bees. He runs into doorways. I have never in my life seen him sit down unless under extreme duress. He's pretty much the last thing I want in my house: ninety pounds of high-strung, uncoordinated stupid. The tail alone knocked over a chair and a lamp and unplugged my TV. How? I don't know. So I told DMIL that the dogs can stay outside until dark, and they can sleep in the unfinished part of the basement. She had no problem with that because shit, I've got five acres for them to sniff and pee on. They'll be fine. We were making arrangements for Nick's grandmother to watch the boys so Nick, DMIL, and I could go into town to the winery for an afternoon of sampling. Grandma told Nick to send the boys with swimsuits because she was going to set up a sprinkler for them (since it is like fourty jillion degrees outside AGAIN) so I went upstairs to find said trunks. That's when I heard the weird yipping. Not really playful yipping, more like "what the fucking hell ouch" yipping. Now, I'm no dog expert, but I can tell when something ain't right. So I looked out the window and saw not two, but four dogs rolling around in my front yard. Mousse seemed to be taking the worst of it, of course. Way to pick on the guy who can't fight back. I started screaming for Nick, who ignored me. Por supuesto. I scrambled down the stairs and whipped open the front door to see Mousse being held by the neck by a giant fucking AKITA. Oh, great. Of all the dogs to wander into my yard, it's two giant Akitas. Ichabod, being the bitch he is, hightailed it to the barn and cowered, but poor sick Mousse was trying to fight both of them off by himself. Finally, I screamed, "GODDAMNIT NICK THERE'S TWO DOGS ATTACKING MOUSSE!" which brought both him and DMIL running. Nick's crazy ass jumped right in the middle of the fight and pulled this huge drooling attack dog off Mousse and threw him in the house and started throwing shit at the dogs to get them to go away, but they just looked at him. Then reality kicked in and he jumped back into the house and grabbed the phone. Hey, guess what? When you live on a farm in buttfuck Illinois, there is no animal control. There's the sheriff, who tells you, "If you've got a gun, shoot the fuckers. You're well within your rights there." Well, we were going to pick up a gun NEXT weekend, so here we are unarmed. Nick jumped in his mom's truck and went to the three closest neighbors to ask them if they happened to be missing some fucking lethal weapon dogs. Nobody had a clue, so he went to his grandma's to borrow her shotgun. (His family is getting cooler every moment, no? She also has a tattoo of a black widow on her hand.) I stayed home watching these two huge Akitas circling my house and growling. Fun. I was on the phone with Nick, who was moments away, when a ratty old Dakota ripped into my driveway and two guys jumped out and ran for the dogs. DMIL launched out of the house and let loose a stream of curses and insults at them for letting these assholes get loose. Oh wait, she directed most of them at the guy's thirteen-year-old son. Oops. Then Nick pulls in on two wheels and jumps out with a shotgun. You should have seen the looks on their faces when they saw him, it was priceless. The guy says, "You weren't going to shoot my dog, were you?" Nick just nodded. It was beautiful. So it turns out this guy lives two houses down (which is almost three miles away, I love it here) and the Akitas are a breeding pair. (My first thought: oh, thank god there's an Akita farm where I'm raising my kids.) He claims that they're wonderful with people, they just freak out when they see other dogs. He offers to pay for any bills Mousse incurs from the attack. He tells us that he is a martial arts instructor and specializes in no-holds-barred ultimate fighting. Great. Then he invites us down for a drink so he can give us the dogs' tag numbers and all that crap. Being the lushes we are, we agree. He brings us to his house and wow. His house is amazing. His wife is incredibly nice, his kids are crazy driving an even more beat-up truck around the yard in circles trying to flip it or something. (Sidebar: I said to Nick, "Wow, he has a teenage daughter, awesome. You know what that means." He says, "You pervert." Uh, I meant babysitting. Like I'd mean threesomes or something. And he says I'M the pervert.) So it all worked out okay. Mousse only had one good gash, and DMIL is taking him in on Monday to make sure it's not infected, but it should be fine. The guy seemed shocked that Nick was going to shoot his dogs. At least he knows now that if those fuckers get out again, that's the end of them. I don't care how many times he tells me they're great around kids. They're Akitas. Those are attack dogs by nature. I don't care that he says they're around kids all the time. I don't trust dogs, especially dogs like Rottweilers and pitbulls and Akitas. Fuck. The kids just came down and said they wanted to hang out with me. When are they going to be old enough to entertain themselves? Can I get some adult conversation someday? Please? Just once I want to talk to someone who doesn't freak out if I don't repeat everything they say. And who doesn't repeat everything I say. The other day Nick ran his toy car into Nickolas' and said, "Look out, fucker." That's just super. Oh look, it took that long for them to start fighting. I am going to start sending one away for a week at a time. They can't be together for two fucking minutes without screaming and fighting, and I'm starting to go nuts. Good thing DMIL left me a few xanax. I just asked Luke what his problem was. His answer, "Nickolas just looked like he was going to touch my blanket." Looks like those few xanax aren't going to last through the evening. Kids are: Last person who pissed me off: Heard in my house: Miss Anything? pics - 2007-06-05
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