Day 96: Roscoe...

Well, I guess it was inevitable that I'd have to say something about the other man of the house.  The little man.  The tough guy.  Mr. Alpha.  Little Roscoe Jenkins. 

He came to us as part of an "intervention".  While living in Irvine, I came home from work one day to find my wife, daughter and her boyfriend all sitting around the living room, just staring at me when I walked in.  Besides the goofy grins I got, I immediately knew something was afoul when Nicole was being overly nice to me, asking me how my day was.  Mind you this was the same kid who, back in the day, could almost never make eye contact and seldom could string three words together to make a conversation with me.  Of course the first thing I said was "What do you want?"  Come on, ladies, you're not all that subtle, plus I've been around the block a few times so I know you're always wanting something.  I guess that's why you like the young, dumb kind.  They're easily manipulated.  I'll leave it at that.  I could write a book on a woman's idea of natural selection when it comes to picking a mate.

Any way, I won't bore you with the details.  Suffice it to say we ended up with yet another prototype dog (there's also the long haired Chihuahua).  At that time I was beginning to think I'll never own a "real" dog (50lbs or bigger).  So now that we have this, ugh, toy poodle, I'm thinking, well, at least he's a male.  It'll help offsite the excessive amount of estrogen consuming this household.  Yeah, wishful thinking.

My ideas of male bonding were pretty much shot from day one.  This little troll immediately imprinted with my wife and he quickly became her guardian.  I'm completely convinced he was a Secret Service agent in a previous life.  Where ever Julie goes, so goes Roscoe.  When Julie gets up from the couch it's almost as if you can see him talk into his little paw, "Eagle is on the move", and he's off following right on her heels.  Forget bathroom privacy.  Julie quickly learned she had to leave the door ajar or else he'd frantically scratch the hell out of it.  When she goes on errands, living him behind, I'm serenaded for a good 30 minutes of whines and howls. 

I think the worst part was and still is his attitude towards me every time I reach over to give Julie a hug or a kiss.  It's like when someone gets too close to the president.  SWARM, SWARM, SWARM!!!   Now mind you, he's really quite a little wimp.  His outbursts are best summed up by William Shakespeare, "...full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."  Belle, the Chihuahua, who to this day is still trying to convince the rest of us she's NOT a dog, wants nothing to do with him but at the drop of a treat will make him cower like a little bitch.  Of course the minute Belle walks away, he struts around all cock strong as if to say, "Yeah, you're LUCKY I didn't bite you."  If there was a dog that's completely full of shit, it would be Roscoe.

As much as it pains me to say it, the little guy does have a cute side.  Yeah, he pisses me off when he barks at me when I enter a room or at every frickin' truck that rolls down our street.  But it is kinda cute how he hops up into my lap when there's a thunderstorm or when he curls up next to me in the middle of the night when he's cold.  He's got a quirky personality.  Tough exterior but total mush on the inside.  He's our little home security system, barking at every little noise.  No one could sneak into this house.  So for that, little man, thank you.  It  would be nice, though, if you had a little on/off switch.  Heck, some doggie Valium now and then might be nice to mix in your bowl.  

So for now there are still two men of the household.  An awkward truce between man and mutt, both claiming to be the "Pack Leader".

PS - the pic from the groomers... yeah, that's the look that says, "GET ME THE F--- OUT OF HERE, A-HOLE!!"