Killer Carol

I’ve had dogs that liked me, but they always “loved” other people.   This past few weeks I found a dog that actually loves me. If I’m lucky, for the next 15 years, I won’t be able to take a shit by myself.

It’s our pandemic puppy.  The Bear and I are stuck at home — first time in 11 years we are spending full weeks together.  Need a distraction.

Apparently, we are not the only ones.  After toilet paper, the next panic buy are “pandemic puppies.” Dogs are being adopted at record rates in every state.

Living apart we didn’t think it was fair to get a dog — it would be left alone for days at a time.

Early in our marriage and when the boy was young, we went through two golden retrievers, back to back.  They both loved her. When they slept in our bed, she got the soft parts. I got the paws. They would push all night trying to get me off the bed. Forty pounds can’t move 240 pounds — even when it’s asleep. So fuck you, you four-legged losers.

They followed her everywhere.  They tolerated my existence and would follow my direction if she was gone and I had food in my hand.

During Covid-19, she wanted love again.

Her hillbilly sister has 6 dogs.  She and her husband had the connection to a “rescue.”

God damn it, don’t call it a rescue.  We are not pulling these dogs out of a burning building — we are just buying a dog at a store between a Dominoes and a Bahama Bucks.  Nobody has ever been rescued from a Bahama Bucks.*

They specialize in pit-bulls and pit-bull mixes.

“Let us know when they have something that won’t try to kill us in the night,” the Bear said.

They had one golden retriever puppy.  On Friday nights at 7 p.m., they post new pictures. You bid on the “picture.” First bidder with a successful PayPal transaction wins the dog.  I checked PayPal – said it was ready. We click, the retriever was gone before the page refreshed.

“$1500” for that Golden.  Glad we didn’t “win” that shit.

“Let’s just get a dog no one else wants that’s not a Pit-bull,” I said.

Here’s the dog no one has bid on in 3 weeks.  It’s a weepy-eyed, 14-week-old puppy.  $325. Already spayed, chipped, shots, comes with a collar and a leash.

“Sold.”

My PayPal account was all fucked up. Stuck in the endless loop of the PayPal “help chat” that the robots never answer.  I’m cussing at the machine.

The Bear slipped into the other room, set up a new account and bought the dog before I could even read the full profile.

It was a chihuahua mixed with a dachshund. It’s a 3-pound rat with dog-like behavior.

I’ve spent the last 4 years railing against the mini-creatures the Savages call dogs. I had a 40-pound minimun.  Anything else is a cat that barks.

We grab our masks and make our way to the store.  We are standing outside waiting our turn when a lady brings a “kitten” out and hands it to the Bear.  She holds it, she feeds it. I’m distancing myself from the little rat and all the people starting to gather.

The Bear is concerned we won’t bond. She hands the rat my way. It curls into my chest. it digs its nose into the stubble on my double chin. It falls asleep.

It stayed that way for the next 15 minutes as we make our way to the counter to go over the “adoption” papers.

It slept on the way home.

It’s half the size of the smaller Savage dogs. It shook and whimpered when we entered the house.  It cries.  There’s no crying in dogs. Stop fucking shivering — it’s not cold.

Jesus fucking Christ, this thing better buck up. I’m not going to walk around the block with a rat that looks like it can’t quit heroin.

The Bear had work to do. I made myself a bacon sandwich. It climbed close to me.  I saved 3 small bits of bacon.  When I was done, I fed the bits to it one at a time.

By the third nibble, that dog was mine.  Followed me to bed. Slept under the covers and next to my legs. It follows me like my pockets are lined with a pound of Farmer John’s thin-sliced and cooked to perfection.

Working from home, it lives in my lap.

killer-carol-cropped
This is not an optical illusion. The “dog” will probably  fit in that coffee cup.

Now we need a name.

She’s a “brindle.” Stripes like a tiger.

“Killer Carol Fucking Baskins”, the Boy said in his worst Joe Exotic accent.  It’s just as good as Susan B. Anthony.

In mixed company, we call her “Carol.” But Killer Carol Fucking Baskins is the only dog that has ever loved me.

 


*Bill Burr had a whole routine about rescue dogs and Pit-Bulls.  I shamelessly stole part of it here.


Updated: May 21, 2020

More pics as requested by 1 lonely and desperate reader:

solo-nap-carolCarol-clothes-napcarol -tummy timehip-nap

 

12 thoughts on “Killer Carol

  1. She’s lovely! Looking most content in your lap! Wee dogs are fun creatures. I used to hate them but then we stole one from a shitty owner and learned how cool they can be. Congrats on your new Love.

    Liked by 1 person

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