Ho, hum. Confession Thursday has reared its ugly head. I know that you’ve all got your confessions ready to go. I hereby grant a reprieve from confessing anything more to those of you who shared their terrible mothering stories in an effort to lift my mood. It’s not working, but thanks anyway. Ha! Seriously, I still feel terrible about my little baby girl (Tween C) standing out in the dark parking lot, crying and scared and not knowing what in the world to do about it. But I digress.
Okay, here goes it:
It’s very liberating to realize the extent of the things to which I may confess, since Zohrhubby (as has been established) does not read this blog. It’s not improper for me to post things about him, since he was given the opportunity to read it, gave it a good once-over look, and ignored it from then on. This confession is a wrong committed against him (if you are being particular) and the animal kingdom.
About 16 years ago, when we had only one 9 or 10 month old kid, we also owned a dog named Max. Max was a short haired dachsund. He was, in my opinion, possessed by some demon and was the bain (bane?) of my existence. He would eat shoes, pantyhose (in those days, people still word pantyhose), baby toys, bottles, garbage, and even, on occasion, his own poop. I’m telling you, this dog was evil. I hated him. Zohrhubby, on the other hand, adored him. I spent all my time cleaning up the garbage-filled crap in his wake (literally).
I came home from a long day at work one evening and Zohrhubby was at work. We locked Max up in the kitchen in our apartment while we were gone, for obvious reasons. That same morning, I had emptied the diaper pail into the main garbage can, which was closed up in a closet in the kitchen. The door from the rear of the apartment parking area entered into our kitchen. I stepped inside, carrying my purse, a diaper bag, and then-Baby E in his carseat, and stepped directly into the middle of a warzone. Evil Max had figured out how to “tap” the closet door just so, and opened the door, and had proceeded to empty the entire contents of the garbage can (nearly 50% dirty diapers) and then shred it all into tiny pieces. There were hunks of baby poop and the smell of sulfar all over the room. I went absolutely berserk. This was the straw that broke the camel’s back.
I went into the bedroom, set down all of my things (and my kid) and came back into the kitchen with a broom in my hand. I began chasing the dog around the tiny kitchen, swatting and cursing and making a general ass out of myself. Bits and shards of garbage and shredded diapers filled the air in the ruckus. I opened the screen door and ordered the dog outside, who didn’t hesitate to escape my fury. I hollered as he tucked his tail and headed out of my sight that he was to “NEVER COME BACK, YOU STUPID F**KING DOG!”
I spent the next hour cleaning the mess. I cursed and slammed things around the entire time.
Several hours later, at near dusk, Zohrhubby returned from work. It was late fall, and the forecast for that evening called for near freezing temps, the coldest so far that season.
Zohrhubby noticed immediately that Max was not around. “Where’s Max?”
“Um, I don’t know, I haven’t seen him.” I hadn’t mentioned a word about the kitchen. My disdain for that dog was already too pronounced. Any more information from me would seal my fate because I secretely wished that the dog would heed my warning, and never come back.
Zohrhubby spent the next 2 hours wandering around our block, calling out, even in the darkness. “MAAAAAXXXXX!”
I sat inside and grinned. The dog was gone forever.
To this day, Zohrhubby accuses me of driving off and dumping that dog somewhere. I have never admitted the truth, but honestly can deny having done that.