Gus and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

So my dog.

Yes. He’s a 12 pound Pomeranian. We think. Or something. Here is a picture of him:



He enjoys sitting (like that) in the sun room.

He also enjoys driving in the car with the window rolled down:



And rolling in dead things in the grass:



I think if my dog could be compared to any one in real life, it would be David Sedaris. Or maybe Frasier’s brother. You know, this guy:



Anyway, he’s a bit eccentric. He only likes food that is the color red. He prefers to hang out in his little house during the day, even though we don’t put him in there. He will lick my ankles for hours at a time. He’s a weirdo, but we love him.

We adopted Gus a few years ago. I caught Paul off guard and in a weak moment he agreed to let me adopt him. When we got him, his hair/fur/whatever it is was pretty shaved down, and we didn’t know what he was or what he was going to look like. He was neither cute, nor uncute. At the time, he looked like this:



You see, because Paul didn't grow up with dogs, he didn't like dogs. I, myself? I’m a BIG dog person, but I grew up with labs, and if I had my druthers, we would have a big dog. Sometimes I treat Gus like a big dog and not a little furball. But our condo association won’t let us have a big dog, so I had to compromise and just get what was available and under 30 pounds.

As time passed, Paul began to love him even more than I did. He even considered entering the two of them into a contest called Big Guy, Small Dog. We never did, and I think Paul still regrets having not done this, as he’s fairly convinced they would have won. Basically, Paul has become the equivalent of a stage mom. If there were a show called “Tiaras and Pomeranians,” I think Paul and Gus would be on it.

Because Paul is a much more responsible human being than I am, he has typically always come home at lunch to let Gus out to take a whiz. Paul did that every day for two years, even though I worked closer to our home than Paul did. However, Paul’s job location has recently changed, and now he works so far from our house that it would be impossible for him to drive all the way home to let Gus out at lunch. But of course, Gus is now USED to being let out every four hours or so. So now I have to do it. Ugggh. Fine.

Bear with me…I getting to the good part.

Anyway, Paul leaves the house at 6:30 a.m., I leave the house at 8:45ish, so I usually let Gus out ONE MORE TIME before I head to work so I can push coming back to let him out until later in the day. Last Friday, I did just that, because I knew my parents were coming to stay with us for the weekend and that they would be in around 1:30 p.m. and head straight to my house. So, I asked my mom if she would let out Gus out when she got to my house so that I wouldn't have to go home for lunch that day.

Only, when she got to my house, she didn't have to let him out.

Because he was already outside.

Where I left him earlier that morning.

Chained to his little tether.

Oops! Pregnancy brain!

Thank GOD it wasn’t like, negative 20 degrees outside!

I confessed that I’d done this to Paul. He was not pleased. He was tempted to turn me in to dog protective services.

Later that day (TO MAKE UP FOR MY NEGLIGENCE) Paul made an appointment for Gus to get his hair cut the next morning at 8:00 a.m. (MY DOG LOVES GETTING GROOMED. SEE ABOVE COMPARISON.) Obvs I was NOT about to get up that early on a Saturday morning to take my dog to the beauty parlor, but Paul, being the stage mom that he is, was happy to do it.

When they came home, THIS is what walked through my door:







Holy. Shit.

The Pomeranian Stage Mom has De-RAILED.

That's Paul's hands in the first two pics, holding him into submission so that I can take a photo. I'm sure you're surprised. Paul said he ASKED the dog groomer to give him this cut for Halloween. But he also said that with a flashy hair cut like that, maybe I wouldn't forget to let him back in the house in the morning.

Well play, Paul. Well. Played.