Doggy Daycare

I babysat Jessy's Maltepoo puppy yesterday. Marley was a little more "poo" than "malte": really fucking cute but really fucking incontinent. I would take him outside and stand there as he sniffed and looked around for two hours (magnetically attracting all females within a 2-block radius), and then as soon as we come back into my apartment kid immediately squats, trembles, and decorates my rug. I built a penitentiary for him in my kitchen but he cries when he's left alone so I had to hang out in the pen with him. I got them cute-cellmate-who-pisses-on-the-floor jailhouse blues. I was actually going to custom tailor a diaper for him out of a small plastic bag but as I was looking at it trying to figure out where to cut the holes he pissed again; I was forced to abandon my preventative efforts for corrective measures and haz mat cleanup. Also, what's up with cute puppy stinkypoo? I had no idea that a baby animal the size of a football was capable of emitting such foul odors. Hell hath no fury like the aroma of Marley's ass. I involuntarily gagged several times, and cleaning up poo is a difficult endeavor when one is dry-retching uncontrollably. It wasn't all misery, though. When I figured out puppy industry rule number four thousand and eighty -- that you can't take your eyes off of them even for ONE SECOND -- I was able to make a dive for his ass wielding a Ziplock bag and catch his carpet art like a touchdown pass. I did dance an endzone jig after that victory, but I didn't spike the ball. I was so pooped myself last night by the time Jessy picked Marley up I was thinking about cancelling dinner plans on the west side with my friend Jon. My ravenous hunger outweighed my exhaustion, however, and I hit the road. We had planned on soul food at Aunt Kizzy's Back Porch in the Marina, but arrived too late and were banished to a forgettable NY Pizza joint. (Wrong guess, Julie! By that time we were both too hungry to drive back to Venice for a few slices of Abbott's superior pie.) As we sat down I sensed a disturbance in the force and squinted: "Do you smell ass?" I asked Jon. "I swear I can smell dog shit." It was very faint, and he didn't know whether he smelled it for real or because I suggested it. I couldn't see any brown stains on the bottoms of my shoes, inside my zippered hoodie or on my lap (the latter two being known Marley haunts), but I was still suspicious. I never located the source of my unease and as the night wore on, it evaporated...either that or my olfactory sense became inured to it. In either case, all yesterday's linen is in the washing machine right now, and my kicks are in the sink.

Conclusion: while I'm undoubtedly a Marley fan, my love for puppies in general -- at least for the time being -- is reserved for those who have been properly house-trained.