Tag: tuckus

I almost killed my dog Angus the other day. Not on purpose and not with unattended butter this time but with my more than ample buttocks.
I may have mentioned my dogs are fairly out of control and any attempt and creating boundaries is useless. At this point even if I tried to enforce them they would think I was just playing and then knock me down and try to eat my hair. With my training skills I’m beginning to think it’s a very good thing I don’t have children. They would probably end up being the terror of Phelps and the surrounding counties and people would secretly refer to them as Dahmer and Bundy behind my back. But I digress.
So being the out of control mongrels that they are they tend to think they are entitled to go everywhere with me no matter what I’m doing. For some reason especially when I go to Dave’s house Angus and Donald think they have to go to the bathroom with me and protect me from the shower curtain. While Donald just flops down on the floor and gives the shower the stink eye while making disgruntled huffing noises at it, Angus jumps right on in the bathtub and sniffs the curtain from the back side then rolls around on his back in the tub. Unless there’s water in it, then he jumps back out and prances around like a dainty ballerina trying to dry his feet off by sniffing then licking them one by one. I have no idea why. Because he’s Angus I guess.
So I’m at Dave’s and we go through our bathroom routine, I go to do my business assuming Angus is in the tub like he always is, and not thinking to look behind me to make sure I have proper clearance I go to sit down when what should my lumbering butt cheek feel but a warm, furry little head instead of cold toilet seat.
You know those stories of how distraught mothers, fueled by adrenaline when their child is stuck under a crashed car suddenly have the strength to pull the car off their baby? I have to believe that super human adrenaline strength and a whole lotta sweet baby Jesus intervention saved Angus from being the filling in a tukhus and toilet sandwich that day. I am neither a small woman or a fit one and the only toned muscle on my body is the one in my arm that delivers food to my mouth, seconded only by the one that moves my middle finger to wave at people that irritate me when I’m driving. So it is truly a miracle that Angus is still alive. I almost yanked the paper dispenser off the wall and felt muscles in my butt, thighs, abdomen and ribs that I didn’t even know existed until I tried to suddenly reverse course, like a panicked and frantically unintended Wayne and Garth schwing salute. Angus on the other hand didn’t even notice that he’d almost had a catastrophic collision with a deadly full moon. He happily continued lapping up refreshing toilet water like nothing had happened. Because he’s Angus.