Of mice and men... er, whatever.

Sunday morning, C got up early to go do an emergency work thing and by early, I mean 6:30am. I had a pounding headache thanks to my perma-stopped up sinuses, so I rolled over so they would drain to the other side and promptly went back to sleep. I got up about 10:00 and went to let the dogs out to potty. In our house, Kit (his dog) sleeps on a bed at the end of the hallway, outside our door. She's pretty and perfect, just like a Mexican sunrise and can't be too far from her daddy or she'll go into this pitiful, mournful cry. And it pisses me off, so her right outside the door is the best we could do (and I can still hear her snoring like a Mack truck). Anyway, Shiner has his kennel set up in this little office cubby between the living room and laundry room, with doors to each. It's a pass through of sorts, and his kennel is set up under the desk.

So, Sunday. I open the kennel, then open the back door and out they go. That's when I smelled it. The poo. My precious little angel of a dog had taken two dinosaur shits in his kennel and also puked twice in the corners. Nice. That's when I realized it was time for him to become an outside dog. Or maybe it was when I was scraping up the poo with a paper towel. Or when I almost threw up while flushing it. It might have been when I was hosing off the bottom of his kennel outside and his puke slid off in one piece into the grass. *barf*

When my love returned home around 11:30, I informed him of what he'd missed and what our task for the day would be. Operation dog house.

Let me tell a little backstory. (Forgive my rambling, because I get my storytelling skills from my mother who cannot tell a good story to save her life.) Just after we moved into the new house, C began a campaign to make Shiner an outside dog. He's a Boston Terrier for pete's sake- he's not made to be an outside dog! I cried. I blamed hormones. My heart broke into a thousand pieces each time he cocked his head to the side and looked at me through the door not understanding why he couldn't come in. And so, he stayed outside during the day but came inside to sleep once it got dark. You know, so the boogie man wouldn't get him. C relented, grumbling. His point is that he sheds something terrible and if we're going to bring a child into this world, it did NOT need the additional aggravation of Shiner-hair on it's sinuses and neither did we. I knew he was right, but my emotions were just too much.

Fast forward to Sunday morning. Those heartbreaking feelings were stifled by the smell of his shit and I no longer cared if he would be scared at night. He was going outside and I had no remorse. Poor little devil. So, he became the proud owner of a super cool, rain resistant "lounging space" that is cooler in the summer and warmer in the winter thanks to the "structural foam". All I know is that effer cost me $100 and he damn well better LOVE it.


That being said, guess where he slept last night? On a pile of moving blankets on the back porch, when he slept, that is. He was up and down barking at every. single. noise. til the sun started to come up. C claims he doesn't need a soft bed in there because it's the summer time and the plastic bottom feels good. Me? I think he's just like everyone else- who doesn't want a soft place to lay their head at night?

So, the saga continues. What do y'all think? Will he tough it out? Will he continue to look pitiful at the door waiting for Mom to save him? Will he turn into Snoopy and turn his dog house into a castle? Only time will tell, I guess.