(no subject)
There comes a time, when one owns pets, that they begin to have sneaking suspicions that each and every animal is undoubtedly only sticking around because their owner's organs smell delicious.
That may sound a little paranoid. But I shit you not. JUST NOW, we have a line outside the house. Well, not just now, we've had this line for more than ten years now, but you get the drift. It's just a run, with a wheel that can slide from one end of the line to the other. The wheel attaches to a rope, attaches to the clip, attaches to the collar, attaches to the dog, attaches to the heel of my shoe when I boot them out the door and hope, for the love of God, they stop whining so much. It's a process that's repeated several times throughout the day, obviously, as most dogs (at least that I have encountered personally!) need to pee and shit.
I digress. JUST NOW, letting out the second dog - the first comes back inside easily enough, though not without first letting loose a cacophony of distressed yelps and screeches, lest we somehow forget she is outside and some swamp monster, within that time, rises from the lawn and comes to graze contentedly on her viscera. I'M KIDDING. We have no swamp monster. There's just pumas that live in the tall grass out there. I'm not really sure why Greta whines like she does when she has to come in. Perhaps her head truly will explode if the gods take notice that she's outside for too long.
Jesus, I'm trying to tell a story, stop distracting me, wouldja? Criminy. ONE MORE TIME. JUST NOW, let the second dog out, Jake. A mid-sized black and brown terroier with yips that I'm pretty sure only his dog brethren can hear, if he really tries. High pitched and grating and penetrating deep within the confines of one's skull. Tiny needles and hooks digging into your brain meats! One would think that these horrifying, paranoid little yaps would be a warning. "Hi, I'm Jacob, I'm ready to come inside, now!" Is that what you thought, huh? Did you?
WELL, YOU'D BE WRONG.
Jake wants to play a little game, which may or may not be said in as deep and gravelly a voice as the Saw guy in his head, I'm not sure. I'm not held privy to his pre-recorded conversations, only what does inevitably come out of his mouth, so "I want to play a game" comes out more like "yip yip whinypants whine." Which is sort of similar. This game entails starting off with these series of dog... I'm not sure they constitute as "barks." High-pitched doggy sounds of dog. It starts off with those. A human (my brother or myself, generally) will approach the back door, slide it wide open, and thus begins the game.
Because Jake generally doesn't MOVE from the other end of the line.
It's some kind of induction of schizophrenia into the person's body, or some horrible multiple personality disorder. First there's the normal tone, the "Jake, come on," or some variation on those words. That's all well and good if he comes in on the first try, perhaps doesn't feel like being a little shit head and playing such games, that's fine. But there are those times, times when Jake will stand stock still at that end of the line, looking back at you with tiny, beady, black hole dog eye voids of horribleness, within which are demons and monsters and hellfires. I'm sure he shares a small, inner doggy guffaw of victory.
At which the first phase of psychosis begins to settle in, probably in the form of an equally high-pitched, cheerful little guidance counselor type, stooping to this dog's equally high-pitched level and acting as the role of spiritual motivator. "Come on, Jakey-boy!" is generally that descent into madness, squeaky and happy and, aw, look at you, clapping down one your thighs all excitedly and trying to instill some pep into the demon you're trying to stare down at the other end of the line.
Once cheerfulness doesn't work, then comes the irate, brusque disciplinary action in attempts to order him back into his cave. "Jake, get in here!" Or, in the case of my mom, something about getting the fuck inside before she breaks him. Something like that. Mean and angry-sounding and the like. It's usually a quick changeover, with the personality disorder you spontaneously develop at this back door, a fast flicker from OH YAY HAPPY LET'S GO JAKE YOU CAN DO IT to, of course, the less inspirational football coach that I like to think of as Jane Lynch in Glee, all YOU'RE WORTHLESS, RUN DOWN THIS LINE RIGHT NOW WITH YOUR TAIL BETWEEN YOUR LEGS, YOU WEAK LINK, YOU SCOUNDREL.
One of these personalities is usually bound to shock Jake into confusion, send him whizzing down that line with a series of galloping happiness, tongue hanging delightfully from the side of his mouth in an "aw, shucks, you did all that for me?" sort of manner. The easier times, at least. Those times are rather nice.
It's the times when Jake spawns his own personality, his sadistic BASTARD, Bruce Willis-ian, COME AND GET ME personality that tends to suck. As I hate losing. No matter what newfound mental disorders you crack out on your own in attempts to coax him in (Swedish Chef motivator!, small gremlin overlord!, Miley Cyrus!) (I haven't actually tried any of these personalities. It's something to consider), he won't budge from his spot, there in that cozy patch of earth, down the end of the line, sitting upon his throne of grass and bugs and sharing a small evil laugh of evil with himself, a moo ha ha ha of victory in the hopes of holding out until his owner has to don shoes, stomp out towards the end of the line and forcibly drag him back inside.
I'm kind of stubborn. Some people might have noticed. And I do hate to lose. Humans are a superior species, dammit, I will not regress, perhaps sending the world spiraling into some kind of Planet of the Apes-like universe in which dogs rule the humans with an iron-- paw, all because I obeyed my dog instead of putting my foot down.
If he doesn't come in for my original bouts of schizophrenia, I'll simply shut the door. Let him stay out there, in his land of isolation and doggy guffaws of victory. Can't feel too good, does it, Jake, staying out there all by yourself and being all lonely in that grass, no friends but ants and ticks and perhaps tiny grasshoppers if you're having a rather lucky day. No, that can't be too fun at all.
Extra points if it's downpouring. Jake does hate getting wet. And yet will play this game whilst rain is coming down in torrential buckets, delineating Doom's Day all across our back lawn in the form of a temporary mini-lake out by the pool. I let him stew for a while (in rain, it generally doesn't take as long), occasionally checking back at the door as he starts to look increasingly more pathetic, sliding open the glass door enough to leave an inviting opening into a land where there may be food and less bugs and - on those rainy days - drier and warmer territory.
"Well?" I will ask, and one of those times, generally, he will eventually come inside.
This is the secret, pet owners. OWN THE PETS. DON'T LET THEM OWN YOU. Even when he's giving you the stink eye from the other side of the lawn, perhaps debating whether to turn into his monster form, reigning with terror across the acres of Rehoboth until he can gobble you up in one fell swoop and pick his teeth with your humerus (which is a bad idea, really, it's not all too sharp or toothpick-y). Don't let him winnnnn. Don't fear the demon eyes, no matter how many cups of crazy are in them.
I need to get out more.
I have a strange rash on my arm. It's itchy. I'm trying not to look at it.
Also, this is my version of studying for the Medical Terminology test I have tonight. ohoho. But I hadn't written in my Livejournal for a while. I figured I'd bestow my presence upon you all, give you the GIFT of my company, that is a journal update. See? SEE? Don't you feel special now?
I'm going to disappear into the world of flashcards now :(
That may sound a little paranoid. But I shit you not. JUST NOW, we have a line outside the house. Well, not just now, we've had this line for more than ten years now, but you get the drift. It's just a run, with a wheel that can slide from one end of the line to the other. The wheel attaches to a rope, attaches to the clip, attaches to the collar, attaches to the dog, attaches to the heel of my shoe when I boot them out the door and hope, for the love of God, they stop whining so much. It's a process that's repeated several times throughout the day, obviously, as most dogs (at least that I have encountered personally!) need to pee and shit.
I digress. JUST NOW, letting out the second dog - the first comes back inside easily enough, though not without first letting loose a cacophony of distressed yelps and screeches, lest we somehow forget she is outside and some swamp monster, within that time, rises from the lawn and comes to graze contentedly on her viscera. I'M KIDDING. We have no swamp monster. There's just pumas that live in the tall grass out there. I'm not really sure why Greta whines like she does when she has to come in. Perhaps her head truly will explode if the gods take notice that she's outside for too long.
Jesus, I'm trying to tell a story, stop distracting me, wouldja? Criminy. ONE MORE TIME. JUST NOW, let the second dog out, Jake. A mid-sized black and brown terroier with yips that I'm pretty sure only his dog brethren can hear, if he really tries. High pitched and grating and penetrating deep within the confines of one's skull. Tiny needles and hooks digging into your brain meats! One would think that these horrifying, paranoid little yaps would be a warning. "Hi, I'm Jacob, I'm ready to come inside, now!" Is that what you thought, huh? Did you?
WELL, YOU'D BE WRONG.
Jake wants to play a little game, which may or may not be said in as deep and gravelly a voice as the Saw guy in his head, I'm not sure. I'm not held privy to his pre-recorded conversations, only what does inevitably come out of his mouth, so "I want to play a game" comes out more like "yip yip whinypants whine." Which is sort of similar. This game entails starting off with these series of dog... I'm not sure they constitute as "barks." High-pitched doggy sounds of dog. It starts off with those. A human (my brother or myself, generally) will approach the back door, slide it wide open, and thus begins the game.
Because Jake generally doesn't MOVE from the other end of the line.
It's some kind of induction of schizophrenia into the person's body, or some horrible multiple personality disorder. First there's the normal tone, the "Jake, come on," or some variation on those words. That's all well and good if he comes in on the first try, perhaps doesn't feel like being a little shit head and playing such games, that's fine. But there are those times, times when Jake will stand stock still at that end of the line, looking back at you with tiny, beady, black hole dog eye voids of horribleness, within which are demons and monsters and hellfires. I'm sure he shares a small, inner doggy guffaw of victory.
At which the first phase of psychosis begins to settle in, probably in the form of an equally high-pitched, cheerful little guidance counselor type, stooping to this dog's equally high-pitched level and acting as the role of spiritual motivator. "Come on, Jakey-boy!" is generally that descent into madness, squeaky and happy and, aw, look at you, clapping down one your thighs all excitedly and trying to instill some pep into the demon you're trying to stare down at the other end of the line.
Once cheerfulness doesn't work, then comes the irate, brusque disciplinary action in attempts to order him back into his cave. "Jake, get in here!" Or, in the case of my mom, something about getting the fuck inside before she breaks him. Something like that. Mean and angry-sounding and the like. It's usually a quick changeover, with the personality disorder you spontaneously develop at this back door, a fast flicker from OH YAY HAPPY LET'S GO JAKE YOU CAN DO IT to, of course, the less inspirational football coach that I like to think of as Jane Lynch in Glee, all YOU'RE WORTHLESS, RUN DOWN THIS LINE RIGHT NOW WITH YOUR TAIL BETWEEN YOUR LEGS, YOU WEAK LINK, YOU SCOUNDREL.
One of these personalities is usually bound to shock Jake into confusion, send him whizzing down that line with a series of galloping happiness, tongue hanging delightfully from the side of his mouth in an "aw, shucks, you did all that for me?" sort of manner. The easier times, at least. Those times are rather nice.
It's the times when Jake spawns his own personality, his sadistic BASTARD, Bruce Willis-ian, COME AND GET ME personality that tends to suck. As I hate losing. No matter what newfound mental disorders you crack out on your own in attempts to coax him in (Swedish Chef motivator!, small gremlin overlord!, Miley Cyrus!) (I haven't actually tried any of these personalities. It's something to consider), he won't budge from his spot, there in that cozy patch of earth, down the end of the line, sitting upon his throne of grass and bugs and sharing a small evil laugh of evil with himself, a moo ha ha ha of victory in the hopes of holding out until his owner has to don shoes, stomp out towards the end of the line and forcibly drag him back inside.
I'm kind of stubborn. Some people might have noticed. And I do hate to lose. Humans are a superior species, dammit, I will not regress, perhaps sending the world spiraling into some kind of Planet of the Apes-like universe in which dogs rule the humans with an iron-- paw, all because I obeyed my dog instead of putting my foot down.
If he doesn't come in for my original bouts of schizophrenia, I'll simply shut the door. Let him stay out there, in his land of isolation and doggy guffaws of victory. Can't feel too good, does it, Jake, staying out there all by yourself and being all lonely in that grass, no friends but ants and ticks and perhaps tiny grasshoppers if you're having a rather lucky day. No, that can't be too fun at all.
Extra points if it's downpouring. Jake does hate getting wet. And yet will play this game whilst rain is coming down in torrential buckets, delineating Doom's Day all across our back lawn in the form of a temporary mini-lake out by the pool. I let him stew for a while (in rain, it generally doesn't take as long), occasionally checking back at the door as he starts to look increasingly more pathetic, sliding open the glass door enough to leave an inviting opening into a land where there may be food and less bugs and - on those rainy days - drier and warmer territory.
"Well?" I will ask, and one of those times, generally, he will eventually come inside.
This is the secret, pet owners. OWN THE PETS. DON'T LET THEM OWN YOU. Even when he's giving you the stink eye from the other side of the lawn, perhaps debating whether to turn into his monster form, reigning with terror across the acres of Rehoboth until he can gobble you up in one fell swoop and pick his teeth with your humerus (which is a bad idea, really, it's not all too sharp or toothpick-y). Don't let him winnnnn. Don't fear the demon eyes, no matter how many cups of crazy are in them.
I need to get out more.
I have a strange rash on my arm. It's itchy. I'm trying not to look at it.
Also, this is my version of studying for the Medical Terminology test I have tonight. ohoho. But I hadn't written in my Livejournal for a while. I figured I'd bestow my presence upon you all, give you the GIFT of my company, that is a journal update. See? SEE? Don't you feel special now?
I'm going to disappear into the world of flashcards now :(