Home stories Because My Dog Wants Me To Die

Because My Dog Wants Me To Die

written by M.E. Evans April 23, 2013

Taking Oliver to go potty is like walking a drunk, homeless man. First of all, he smells like pee, secondly he runs aimlessly in random directions, and darts  back and fourth across the sidewalk without reason. Also, like all drunk people, Oliver has incredible strength despite his appearance. I learned this the other day when he accidentally (on purpose) tried to kill me.

Last week I took him for a walk as I do every day. We were strolling along enjoying the sun, I talked with myself a lot, things were going well when he randomly leapt in front of me for no fucking reason and  jolted forward yanking me behind him. Simultaneously, I looked down and yelled, “The fuck, OLIVER.” And, BAM! 



Some asshole at Telecom left some giant plastic cupboard thingy open on the street. Almost instantly blood trickled down my face and neck and onto my jacket. I was still a block and a half from home so I used the sleeve of my jacket to soak up the blood while I made my way towards my apartment. Oliver  clearly didn’t realize that I was dying because he stopped to pee every three seconds and I’m fairly sure he kept mumbling something about NAM and the 99%.

This whole incident happened about the same time that every kid in Florence got out of school so the sidewalk was flooded with parents gawking and shielding their children’s eyes from me while I was all post-prom Carry. I sped up and tried to walk through the crowd as fast as possible but then Oliver decided he needed to take a massive shit right in the middle of everyone. So there I was, all haunched over, cleaning up his business while blood droplets rained over the sidewalk while everyone watched in silence. Thanks dicks for offering so much help while I was bleeding to death. Oliver hopped up and down all super excited that he just went to the bathroom while I searched desperately for a garbage can with blood in my eyes. I was feeling really bad for myself, plus my head fucking hurt, but I was kind of excited to go home and call my husband to tell him that I was dying cause, you know, sympathy. 

Anyways, I did not die and I did not need stitches. Apparently I’m just super anemic so I bleed a lot. Husband came home and was all, “The fuck Misty!?” Then he made fun of me for the rest of the week for nearly knocking myself out and was all, “WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU, HOW DOES THIS SHIT HAPPEN TO YOU ALL THE FUCKING TIME?” And I was like, “I don’t know! GIVE ME WINE!”

And maybe being drunk is the solution to most things. Have you ever noticed how difficult it is to round-up your drunk friends when you’re sober but when everyone is drunk it’s just fun? Exactly. It’s all coming together now…



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