My dog hates camping. But she hates Son#2 more (feeling’s mutual) and so she suffers one intolerable week with her core family in the great outdoors.
But she lets you know she hates it. Big time.
I never used to be one of those people who doted on their dog. I loved my dogs and I kissed them regularly, but until we got this Shitzuh, I never really spoiled one. They were my dogs. They had a purpose. Protection. Hunting. Bed warming. That’s what they did and in return, we were friends. They slept in my bed. It’s good to have friends in bed. Better than having enemies.
But this Shitzuh is different. She rules the roost. She is undoubtedly the reincarnation of Kim Jung Il, the late North Korean dictator, because she has many dictator like qualities. She demands attention. Her eyes are buggy and crazed. She is a big eater. She likes Elvis. So we call her Little Kim. Not, Lil Kim the rapper either. Our Shitzuh is a tyrant.
I’m sure the dog knew that something was up when I carted her up the steps for a bath before we left. She needed a new dose of flea crap and so I thought a bath was in order. I bath her more often than once a month, but on a Sunday, it’s not something she’d expect.
Truth be told, the dog probably knew way before the damn bath that her life was going to be turned upside down for a week. She’s smart, as most dictator incarnates are, and she saw the signs. Extra marshmallows, coolers being scrubbed out, people bitching. Something was amiss. A plot was afoot. We were going to the goddamn woods!
The dog hid in the back seat the entire way to the campground, her head buried in her daddy’s hoodie. She wouldn’t look at us; she wouldn’t acknowledge our existence. We were dead to her. Meh, I’ve suffered worse; I raised children. And honestly, being ignored isn’t so hard. How do you think I get the chance to write this blog? I simply piss everyone off and wander off to the computer. They hate me and never want to speak with me. I get to write. It’s a great plan.
Once camp has been set up, Little Kim surveys her new property. She’s unimpressed. She can smell all sorts of inferior animal life and even more inferior human life. There’s dogs on either side of her and she hates them as well. If she wanted to surround herself with drooling stupid dogs, she would have stayed at home. Oh wait, Son#2 is at home. She’ll suffer the dogs.
Camp is dusty and dirty and Little Kim doesn’t do dirt and dust. She sulks and shows her disgust for her plight by laying like a lump of hairy sadness in the middle of the campsite. Thinking that I can actually make her feel better, I pick her up and put her in her camp chair. Yes, she has her own camp chair. She doesn’t like it; but it’s hers.
Sulking and sighing, the dog lays on the chair. She doesn’t want to eat hot dogs; she doesn’t want to make camp pies. Don’t even mention s’mores. When you have a give beard, s’mores are a bitch. So she continues to sulk and sigh.
Things got interesting Monday night when she fell out of the camper at about 1:00 a.m. We didn’t realize she was out until about 3:00 a.m. That’s two hours to work herself into a real bitch. She spent a while sniveling and swearing at me in her doggie/North Korean language under my bunk. I thought it was a raccoon and tried to ignore it. It wasn’t until I asked my dear husband to check on the daughter first and the dog second (I swear, that was the order I asked!) did we realize she was out. Boy did we pay. She took sulking and sighing to new levels. We didn’t leave the campground until Friday.
Wednesday, Little Kim thought her luck was changing. Her grammie came to visit. She was saved! Surely Grammie wouldn’t let her suffer this fresh hell any longer. Grammie left that night without Little Kim. The dog sank into a depression. She skipped breakfast on Thursday morning.
The entire week, the dog would make a point of lying on its side, road kill style, in the middle of the dirt. It was pitiful. I considered my actions in bringing her camping. But I couldn’t be away from her that long, grouchy though she was, and rationalized that it camping has never killed a Shitzuh before. I wasn’t so sure that we’d be breaking new ground and be the first ever fatality.
Little Kim showed slight signs of life during hour long belly rubbing sessions, but for the majority of the time she was a miserable little despot, plotting our destruction at every turn. She bit a hole in her stuffed animal, in the rear end area, which I took to mean that our asses were, in fact, grasses. I began to sleep with one eye open. Little Kim had moved into my bed, certain that the daughter had shoved her out of the camper.
Little Kim’s mood picked up only slightly as we broke camp Friday morning. She’d been tricked before, by God, and she wasn’t ready to stake her happiness on a few jackasses milling around a camper doing a piss poor job of closing it up. She wasn’t going to believe she was home until her little feet were firmly planted in her own front yard.
She sat on my lap on the way home, making me rub her chest the entire time. My hand cramped. Little Kim demanded I continue. She would have thrown me in the stockade if she could. As it was, she needed me for one more thing: an end of vacation bath.
The dog was a filthy mess after a week lying in the dirt waiting for death. I had to scrub her twice and the water looked as dark as black coffee. She felt slightly better afterward, but kept a leery eye on all of us. If one cooler entered the kitchen to be wiped out, she was up the steps and under a bed in seconds.
We’ve been home several days and I have to say, the Shitzuh is still pissed off. She’s cranky and she’s snappy and is currently sleeping under the coffee table. She doesn’t come down for breakfast in the morning and she won’t sleep with me anymore. I’m going to give her week and then schedule some therapy. For me. I can’t take the stress anymore!