Let’s review: He prefers our carpet to the outdoors when doing his business. He has ruined hundreds of dollars in underwear by chewing them to pieces, and let’s not forget the time he chewed out the crotch of my bike shorts – which I failed to notice until I bent over in front of my step aerobics class.
He is not a very clean dog and loves to roll around in anything foul, then crawl up on your lap. He prefers cat food over dog food, which explains his five extra pounds and incredibly bad breath. I brought him to the groomers to get his teeth brushed, and when I returned, they handed me two of his teeth! They told me he probably needs gum surgery.
His claim to fame however, is the way he can clear a room with his intestinal fortitude. My sons find this enormously impressive. I find it disgusting. If this dog’s gas had a color, it would surely be green.
The other night Napoleon displayed yet another infuriating talent. I made pork chops for dinner, and as usual, my cooking ended up in the garbage. No one appreciated the barbecue-sauce-slathered chops (baked to perfection) but my husband, so the barely nibbled remaining two chops were dumped into the trash can.
It was four in the morning. I heard a peculiar scratching sound. I got up and investigated. In the dark hallway I could see Napoleon attempting to bury something on top of a discarded plastic Justice For Girls clothing bag. I could smell the barbecue sauce. I knew what had happened.
“Give me that!” I whispered loudly. He looked up at me, barbecue sauce all over his crusty beard. He looked guilty. I picked up the saucy, gnawed bone and wrapped it in the Justice bag. But then I realized what this meant: he had gotten into the garbage can. What horrific mess must be awaiting me downstairs?
I reluctantly made my way down to the kitchen. From one end of the kitchen to the other sprawled the garbage – garlic bread, Greek yogurt, tin foil, barbecue sauce, more yogurt, banana peels, egg shells, asparagus. I took it all in and uttered that phrase I seem to utter almost every day since we got Napoleon: “Ooooohh, that dog!”
I swept and mopped and mopped again. I found that Greek Yogurt makes a stubborn mess. I bagged up the garbage and took it outside. My six cats were all staring at me. It was 4:30 in the morning. Napoleon was nowhere to be found. He was hiding from me. Maybe he has some sense after all.
Just as I was about to return to bed, another horrifying thought occurred to me. There were two pork chops in the garbage. Where was the second one? I began a scavenger hunt for the other chop. Where would it be? Where would that dog have buried it?
I searched the kids’ rooms, the dog’s bed, the living room. I found the empty yogurt cup under my dining room table, but no pork chop. I returned upstairs. A few laundry baskets lined the hallway full of clean, folded clothes. Though it was dark, I spotted something in the corner of one of the baskets of clothes. White clothes! My clothes!
Nestled on top of my most beloved Victoria’s Secret velour sweatpants with rhinestones, lay the elusive pork chop dripping with barbecue sauce. “Ooooohh, that dog!”
It was now 5 a.m. and I was gripping a bottle of Shout, spot-treating the ugly, orange, greasy stain on my beloved sweatpants. The cats were still staring at me. The dog was nowhere to be found. I must have done something pretty awful in my previous life to deserve this dog. I said a little prayer over my sweatpants, hoping for a miracle, and returned to bed – exhausted.
I heard Napoleon sneak in and make himself comfortable in his dog bed. As green, noxious gas filled the room, I fell asleep, counting pork chops.
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