Free To a Good Home, Yellow Lab, Mostly Trained

Rowdie and I are having a hard time getting along, lately. Hugh blames it on the fact that, at almost two-years-old, Rowdie is just leaving the puppy stage and entering his adolescence. Well, I’ll tell you one thing; I already have a pre-adolescent daughter giving me fits; I do not need a ninety-five pound dog complicating matters.

To wit, in just the last week the dog has:

-Shown a complete disregard for decency by sniffing my sister’s crotch an inordinate number of times.

-Peed on my porch. The porch that Hugh spent hours pressure washing so that it would gleam bright enough to blind me in the morning sun.

-Torn up and eaten the new herb planter that I purchased for the porch (we still aren’t sure if the herbs, now transplanted to a new pot, will make it; they are situation critical at the moment).

-Started barking at butterflies. Butterflies, people, the hell?

Needless to say, I am not impressed with these recent developments. That damn dog had better pass through this stage, pronto. If not, does anyone know of a good military school for pets? Come to think of it, our fifteen year old cat, Gilligan, wasn’t too well-mannered during my sister’s visit, either; the hissing, good god, so; maybe we need a pet military school that offers group discounts.

Oooh! And one that accepts pre-adolescent girls as well. Now that would be a dream institution.