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I’ve been reluctant to write about Daisy loosing her eye.  My natural coping mechanism is to turn anything the slightest bit painful into a joke–as seen here.

Daisy got hurt a few years ago.  I only have myself to blame.

I was staying in the country with my parents.  My dad doesn’t believe that dogs should live indoors.  We always had a dog growing up, but it was my dad’s dog to take running and to the farm.  We were never allowed to bring the dog indoors.  At the time this didn’t really bother me.  I didn’t know anything different.  In fact I grew up not really liking dogs. I remember avoiding a friend’s house because she had an inside dog.  I couldn’t even sit down on her couch because the thought of dog hair freaked me out.  I can’t help but laugh at how silly I was.  Now, not only does Daisy hair cover nearly everything I own, but I also let her sleep in my bed.  I think a shiver just went up my dad’s spine.

My dad doesn’t allow Daisy to run rampant through his house, like she does at mine.  It’s his house so I respect his wishes.  When we visit Daisy has to stay in my old bedroom.  Which may have something to do with the fact I rarely visit home, that and the fact the closest Starbucks is over an hour away.  (Insert gasping sounds here.)

This particular day I let Daisy outside while I made a quick phone call.  Normally I would go outside with her.  The yard is not fenced and it’s the country.  Who knows what could happen.  Some farmer may steal my unsuspecting pug and turn her into a farm cat, or worse yet an outdoor dog.

While on the phone I heard a sound that I will never forget.  It was the sound of pain.  I dropped the phone and ran outside.  There I found Daisy with a bulging eye too disgusting to describe. My best guess is my dad’s lab pushed her away with his paw and it caught her eye just right.

After two expensive surgeries my girl was left with one eye.  And this left me with a broken heart. Even now, writing about it, I feel sick inside and completely inadequate.  I let my girl lose a fucking eye.  If I can’t keep my pug safe, what makes me think I could someday be a good mother?

Yes she’s just a dog.  But that dog is my baby.

I’ve received quite a few emails asking me to post a vlog of Daisy.  This is not an easy task.  The only time Daisy has ever been interested in my computer is when Miss Kiesha sent me this pug screen saver.  I had to start putting my laptop away after she saw that, rather than leaving it on the floor.  The MacBook humping was getting a little out-of-control.  Her, for once.  Not me.

Internet I tried my hardest, but Daisy wasn’t feeling it.  I’ll try again another time.  Perhaps after I cover my computer screen in peanut butter, or bacon bits.  Here’s my one-eyed little bitch.

If that’s not enough I have a couple of video clips of her on You Tube here and here.

Cutting Daisy dog’s nails is a constant battle–one that I continually lose.

Last night, in a brave move, I picked up the nail clippers and called her name. She took one look at me and ran. By the time I put the clippers down she was long gone. My apartment isn’t very large so it should only take a few minutes to find her, NOT FORTY FIVE MINUTES! I looked in all her usual hiding spots but nothing.

Knowing there was no way she could get outside I decided to get some reading done and she’d surface soon enough. I sat down on the couch and went to grab my blanket to snuggle up and found this:

She looked so cute I not only skipped clipping her disgustingly long nails, but I let her have the blanket.

My dog, Daisy, has met her match.  A feisty little chipmunk I have named Damian. This animal is the bane of Daisy’s existence.

Every evening when I get home, I open the sliding glass door to my balcony and let Daisy lounge around, watching people out for their evening walks.  She rarely makes any noise.  For a pug owner this is heavenly.

A few days ago, while she was outside I heard a high-pitch whiney noise and what sounded like scratching noises. I went outside to find a chipmunk perfectly balanced on the balcony railing.  Daisy was going insane; I imagine she wanted that chipmunk as much as I want a boyfriend made out of lavender-flavored chocolate.

Damian, the devil chipmunk, could have easily climbed back onto the roof and down the side of the house, but ohhh no.  This little guy wanted to torture Daisy, and thereby torture me.  I brought her back inside and closed the door behind us.  Damian saw the safety in this and scurried closer to the door, making my dog loose her mind.  This went on for an hour before I finally opened the door and shooed the furry little fucker away.

This one night created a new nightly routine for my neurotic little household.

Now, the minute I get home Daisy doesn’t want to go outside for a walk, she wants to stalk her new obsession.  She whines and scratches the door until I let her out onto the balcony, where she patiently waits for Damian.  He always shows up, and the barking and whining continues until I bring her back inside.  At that point, if I listen very closely I swear I can hear a devilish little laugh.  I hate nature.

I’m second-guessing my decision to move in with my brother Ben. I called him last night to go over some small details and was very displeased with the results.

“Hey, Ben, can my shoes live in your bedroom since it’s bigger and there are so many of them?”

“No.”

“OK, well can I paint the bathrooms pink?”

“No.”

“Even though it’s my favorite color?”

“No.”

“Can I put Daisy’s name on the mailbox? As you know she’s way more human than dog.”

“No.”

I just don’t feel like he’s being supportive of my needs as a shoe whore/pink obsessed/crazy dog lady.

My dog is a giant bitch. She, like me, is having a difficult week and has decided to take it out on my apartment–first the pasta incident and now the carpet. My dog that never, ever pees in the house peed last night right IN FRONT OF ME! She squatted by the plants and pissed on my carpet while staring me straight in the eyes. And it didn’t help that people were over. I have never wanted to haul her ass off to the pound like I did that minute. But I won’t.

If I didn’t get rid of her when she ate my grandmother’s antique chair, or when she ate an entire stash of my neighbor’s weed, I certainly won’t get rid of her now. Though, empty threats still feel good.

Maddie pointed out that maybe I shouldn’t tease her with Girl Scout cookies. She’s got a point, but did I mention that she PEED ON MY CARPET!! I can’t wait to see what she’s got in store for me this weekend. Perhaps chewing my legs off while I sleep? I’ll be sure not to wear my vanilla scented lotion at night, just in case.

Or maybe she will learn how to text message on my iPhone and send every single ex-boyfriend a drunken text message. Oh wait, that will be me after I drink an entire bottle of vodka to numb the pain that will undoubtedly follow being rendered legless by an angry pug.

A good night of rest is key to my survival, and mostly the survival of others. I get grumpy, FINE grumpier, when I’m tired.

I got shit for sleep last night, and that bitch I live with is to blame. My dog somehow found a way to open my lower kitchen cabinet without opposable thumbs. Here she found a giant Costco sized bag of dried cheese tortellini pasta, and proceeded to eat half the bag. When I got home at midnight I found the mess. Too tired to yell, I just cleaned up, let her out and went to bed.

Around 2:00 a.m. she woke me up and needed to be let out. In a zombie state I stumbled down the stairs and let her outside. She took care of business and I went back to bed.

Then again around 3:30 a.m. we made the same trip. And then again at 4:45 a.m.! Finally at 5:30 a.m. when she woke me up for the last time I lost it. I yelled at her, and then cried because I was simply exhausted, proving I should never, ever be a parent. Or a dog owner.

In fact, I decided I was a cat person. I can overlook my extreme allergy. Who cares if I can’t breathe and 90% of my body will be covered in hives? Not me. I want an animal trained to use a litter box.

Now I just have to go home and tell this cute face I’m breaking up with her. Luckily for her my follow through is total crap.

You’d think Daisy would be thrilled I’m feeling better so she doesn’t have to share the couch, but here she is on my side of the couch waiting to lay by me. All together now… “ahhhhh.” Really, I think she just likes watching Gilmore Girls, but then who doesn’t?

This year for Christmas I gave myself this blanket from Restoration Hardware. It’s quite possibly the best blanket in the entire world. I’ve never had a blanket so soft. I’m positive I’m snuggling under the skinned carcasses of teddy bears. I’m from the country, I’m down with dead animals touching me. As long as they stay away from my digestive system I’m good.

The description on the website says this blanket is “generously sized for cuddling.” Which is a big fat marketing lie. I’m not a large girl and there is no way I could fit another person comfortably under this thing. I am selfish with my blankets and like to be covered head to toe before allowing my blanket to tough another individual. Any individual, even a dog.

Daisy seems to think just because she is the same color as the blanket, I won’t notice her hair all over it. Once I caught her laying on the blanket, I moved it to where she couldn’t reach it while I’m gone. This afternoon when I got home she had found the blanket and was sound asleep on it.

Needless to say, I was pissed. This one-eyed dog who can’t manage to pour me a glass of wine or anything useful, can find a well-hidden blanket. Dogs would do anything for a good nap, which is way more than even Ben would do for comfort. Unless the blanket smelled like bacon.