Holy Dingleberry, Batman!

So, see this?  See this brown, pellet-like stuff on my concrete patio?  It's poop.  This was not here an hour ago.  No.  I just let Pearl out.  I tried to stop her, but she just kept on walking and pooping and walking and pooping and then she had this dingleberry thing hanging out of her butt and I couldn't let her back in because it would fall on my floor and Oh, God that is gross!  Plus, I have always been dying to write the word dingleberry, mainly because it irritates my husband.  And anything I can do to irritate him is fun.  Dingleberry.

Grant says that I am mean and that I have a cold-black heart that is three sizes too small.  That may be true, but I obviously have some kind of feelings, deep, deep, deep, deep, down inside.  After all, Pearl is still alive (see post titled Pearls of Poopdom, if you are a new reader--I am too retarded to link it).  Not because I don't try to find ways to kill her.  It's really that I don't want to get caught by Grant.  And Animal Cops.  Then I would be on Animal Planet, all drunk with whitening strips on my teeth (what?  I have to have white teeth if I am going to be on tv), saying that I found her eating the antifreeze from the garage and I tried to stop her, but she just kept on slurping it up and I accidentally added more to her dog bowl because she looked like she was enjoying it and I really liked the purty blue color. Also, the family would be asked to leave the awesome Catholic School that we attend, because there would be complaints from the parents and Grant would lose his job and I might lose some friends along the way because they would be all judgy and Lisa is a dog killer, blah blah blah.  The neighbors would likely shun us, as well.  The kids might also be sad and worried about eating their Mother's cooking.  

I don't ever think about just accidentally leaving her outside during the hard evening freezes, even though if she was accidentally left out there, it would be a really humane way to die (do you hear me, Grant?). I would not even think of turning on lullabies on the outdoor speakers to soothe her (bonus points for adding entertainment!) into a lovely, permanent sleep.  Also, I know the coyotes are hungry this time of year so I would never, ever accidentally rub her down with bacon grease and give her an Ambien wrapped in peanut butter (thanks, Michael) and take her for a walk without a leash.  Plus, my husband is a nice and upstanding citizen who worries that I might sully his reputation. Goody-goody.

No.  None of these things ever cross my mind when I find poop on my porch or am awakened at 3 am to let her out and can't get back to sleep. Because I love her. Really, really really love her.