Exhibit A for Argument in Favor of a Cuss Jar

My dog. Ain't she sweet? Fortunately she's cute. And we love her. Because this dog? Is trying to kill me. She does this thing were she has to be exactly where I am at all times. If I'm bringing the groceries in from the garage, she will lay down about three steps in from where I'd come through the door. So that I don't see her until I've taken one giant step forward and have to do this little side step, jump, hop, skip to keep from stomping her. If I'm unloading the dryer, she will sit directly behind me so that when I open the dryer door, pull out the contents and step back, I will have to pull some pretty impressive maneuvers to keep from squashing her. If I'm in the shower she will lay in front of the door. And I basically have to yell at her to move so I can get out [personally, I think she likes to see me naked because sometimes I catch her and she does this thing like she's pretending she's not looking].

If I'm walking down the stairs she will walk ahead of me. And I'll be going along at a pretty good clip and she will suddenly stop. Just BAM! Stop. And I have to grab onto the wall to keep from going ass over tea kettle over her and down the stairs.

[Speaking of stairs, you know how walking down the stairs is kind of just something you do and not something you have to actually think about; like breathing? Have you ever thought about it while you're descending the staircase? Well, don't. Once you start picturing left foot, right foot, next step; it will jack your shit up. And you look kind of dumb when it becomes obvious you've forgotten how to walk down stairs. Not that I would know anything about that.]

She's a heavy breather and she follows me around doing this hhhhhh hhhhhh hhhhhh thing. Which comes from the pit of her bowels and smells like death. I keep thinking she needs a bath but that odor is from the inside. She's old and apparently rotting. A breath mint won't cut it and I'm pretty sure that even the Tidy Bowl Man isn't brave enough for that adventure.


Sometime during the night on Christmas Eve she was either mad at me, or us, or Jesus, or Santa. Or she wanted coffee in a bad way. And we were met with the contents of our kitchen garbage strewn about the floor. Why don't dogs get in the trash when there aren't coffee grounds in there?

Plus it rained the last two days and I'm pretty sure that she's intentionally going outside just to bring in extra mud followed by more mud. And who's bright idea was it to put cream colored carpet in this house? Oh. Right.

Fricken dog.