That isn't funny, at all

Raven

She’s named Raven, black as a night in the center of desert’s desolation. When she walks, if you listen carefully, you can hear the applesauce sloshing around, side to side, within her brain cavity, causing her to lick her chops hungrily, without ever knowing why.

She arrived yesterday, a furry, warm thing to help mend a young boy’s broken heart, her predecessor having passed recently. At the pet store, the boy found a pink tutu. Clothing for dogs was soundly discouraged, and he sulked a bit as he put it back. We settled on a rope toy, and a pretty, purple collar.

The other dog, my old girl, watched her warily, knowing her wobbly-puppy choices are poor ones, keeping a bit of distance so she doesn’t share the wrath when judgment descends from above. As she got acquainted with the new place, the puppy nibbled on things, testing for taste, much like sharks nibble on sunburned surfers. First she nibbled on the coffee table, which, in addition to being shin-height to aid in late-night drunken navigation, is also puppy-height so she can dent its tempting oak more easily. Later, as I rested, she sampled my toes, apparently having mistaken them for plump sausages.

Having come from the pound, where the best dogs are often to be found, she’d need some training. She’d need to learn some of the basic grace which comes more naturally to many of the purebreds; she came without a silver spoon, or any spoon at all. She hadn’t the dainty saunter of seasoned-sophistication. It was more of a waffle-house wobble, bumping into everyone as she shuffled through crowded walkways, breaking wind percussively to announce her passage.

First things first, the dog was bathed, and then fed. The kibble was a complicated and expensive mix of dried chemical coagulate which reportedly was partly comprised of chicken and rice. I like chicken and rice, good enough, though I didn’t try it. She gobbled it down, and whimpered for more, as I complied. After eating, both dogs were hustled out the back door where they might do their doggy business in the yard.

She squatted down, watering some tall dandelions which tickled her ass, and then scampered around a bit, ears bouncing with puppy-gaiety. Although encouraged, by cheer leading with college-coach pep talks, she didn’t crap in the yard as I’d hoped. I explained that it wasn’t lady-like to crap on the carpet inside, and as I pleaded with her to take advantage of the unfertilized lawn. She yapped at me in playful refusal.

Inside, she stole the newspaper from under the coffee table. Taking it from her, and giving her the rope toy instead, I explained that dogs don’t read. She disagreed and later stole it again without my knowledge.

My son and I looked at each other, immediately blaming one another other for the foul odor which began to fill the room, making the curtains billow in protest. The stench was actually visible and produced a thick, brown fog which we had to navigate. I whacked my shin on the coffee table, and cursed loudly. Then, there it was, the biggest pile of shit I had ever seen, even bigger than the rhinoceros shit at the zoo. It had to be half as big as the Raven, the dark dog.

The puppy was nowhere to be found, but the newspaper was laying in front of the steaming pile, opened up to the politics section. Like most females, the dog was a bit smarter than she let on.