I’m one of those people who buys a lot of toys for my dog. Maybe I do it out of guilt for those times I leave him home alone while I run out to go shopping, do errands or whatever. So what if I bribe my dog with squeaky, fuzzy and tuggy things? I do the same thing with my kids and they seem ok with it.
However, while I have been able to somewhat successfully teach my kids to put their toys away, I have had no such luck with my dog. I actually can’t get my husband to put his toys away either, but that is another column.
Our dog Riley has a bin in the kitchen where we keep all his toys… and due to my guilt induced dog toy-buying sprees, he has a lot of them. This means that when he leaves his toys around, there can be upwards of seven assorted rubber Frisbees, several petrified semi-chewed dog bones, a half dozen formerly furry things that are now stiff with dried dog drool, and a couple of squeaky squirrel things on the floor of the family room and kitchen at any one time.
It is, quite truthfully, a dog toy mine field.
Fortunately, I have gotten used to looking down when I walk around this area so as not to trip over or step on the dog, his toys, or the occasional pile of doggie puke.
Unfortunately, I am not always so observant, and one day as I was walking and talking to my husband on the phone, I failed to notice one of the larger dog accessories right in my path. How I could miss a rubber bone that was almost as big as my leg, I’m not quite sure. But before you could say “Down Boy,” I was sprawled on the floor with a fat lip the size of Texas.
Peeling myself off the floor, I ran into the bathroom to look in the mirror. There was no disguising it. I had Trout Mouth.
“Is everything OK?” asked my husband when he called me back. “I heard a yell, a curse, and a thunk.”
“I fell on the dog’s bone and I got a fat lip,” is what I tried to say. But that’s not what came out.
“I thell on the dog’th mone and I got a that lit.” I said emphatically.
“I THELL and I got a THAT LIT.” I repeated.
“You thell?” he wondered. “What’s a thell? Honey, you’re not making any sense.”
I decided to try a different tact. “I tritt on a mone!”
“You tritt? Huh?”
I thought that maybe I should just simplify to get my point across. “I hurt my lit.”
“What is a LIT?” he demanded.
I sighed. This was almost more painful than the lip itself. I was at a loss. Was there any way to communicate to my husband what happened that did not require the use of an F or a P?
“I got hurt.” I told him.
“Oh. Are you OK?”
“Yeah. But I got a that lit.”
He sighed. “I’m sorry honey, I just can’t understand you.”
I threw up my arms in defeat and then thrust the phone at the guilty party.
“Here. Talk to the dog.”