If there’s a version of post-partum depression that comes after the holidays, I have it. I’m not all melodramatic and whiny or any of that shit, but it’s just… feh. This part – the part that comes after the opening of all the gifts and the binge-eating and celebrating – sucks. Someone needs to call Tom Cruise and get him to come fix me up with some vitamins and exercise (which I would do if I hadn’t have twisted my knee, goddammit.) At least I was able to successfully avoid a run-in with Campbell’s mom’s dog, Halo. This is her on the right (the other one is her brother, Balou):
Despite the angelic-sounding name, the innocent-looking face and her relatively normal temperament most times, Halo transforms into the spawn of Satan in a heartbeat. And disturbingly enough, there’s one thing that makes her turn into Cujo.
Ugh, I can’t even type it because it grosses me out too much.
But fine. Here goes.
My used underwear.
We discovered this charming little factoid last Christmas. Only a couple months into our relationship, Campbell invited me home to spend the holiday with his family. We took the guest bedroom and dumped all our stuff in there, and as time went on, we amassed a reasonable pile of laundry.
One afternoon I went into the bedroom to get something and noticed Halo messing around in the pile of laundry. As I got closer, I was fairly disgusted to see her lapping up the crotch of one of my favorite pairs of lacy Victoria’s Secret specials. But whatever – they could be saved, I thought, as I gently put my hand on her back to warn her that I was there and snack time was over. She stiffened, her eyes so wild that the whites were showing, and snarled as she lunged for my arm, shocking me enough that I leapt backward as she went back to snacking on my panties. Ever seen Blade 3? You know the scene where Ryan Reynolds is chained up in the cell and the bad guys come in with the vampire Pom sporting the mouth that opens six different ways? Take that visual, times it by 10, stick one of my dirty thongs in its mouth and that was Halo at that moment.
“Campbell!� I cried out, well aware that it was stupid to be calling for back-up on a freakin’ Pomeranian – they’re purse accessories, for chrissake! – yet too terrified to move. He walked into the room to see me cowering on the bed as I watched Halo shred and ingest my beloved panties, walked over to her to pry the material from her jaws, and suffered the same consequence. He was as shocked as I was, but it was clear: we were messing with her prey, and I was just going to have to sacrifice $18 worth of frilliness in order to keep my limbs in tact. From that moment on we kept the door to our room closed and all clothing tucked away on a shelf.
As time went on, her behavior got more and more bizarre. For example, she’ll be sitting there doing normal dog things when suddenly she sits up on her hind legs and freezes, looking at the ceiling. I’ve joked that she’s getting transmissions from an evil overlord, but it’s seriously getting creepy. It’s like she’s in a trance and then suddenly snaps out of it. I’m afraid one night I’m going to wake up and be strapped to the bed with her growling maniacally at my side, operating some kind of lobotomy machine. Another questionable trait: when she gets anxious she humps legs. That doesn’t sound out of the ordinary… until you take into account that female dogs tend not to do that. But if you sit there for long enough with your leg outstretched, she’ll run up to it like a hairy little rug and start bouncing up and down on it. Campbell suffers this indignity at least twice every trip we take to OC, but I’ve successfully avoided it after the first time it happened. However, she developed a new little fetish that almost wound up putting me in the hospital: licking my feet.
The morning of Christmas Eve I was sitting on the couch taking mental stock of everything that had to be done before the rest of the family arrived the next afternoon. Balou was sitting in my lap contentedly while Halo sat at my feet and suddenly decided licking them was a grand idea. Now, I know dogs lick – I grew up with Cocker Spaniels and Sheepdogs all the time, so dog behavior isn’t new to me. But once, twice, maybe a few times is enough. When you’re going on five minutes, you’re bordering on overkill (that statement applies to dogs, not men – just so we’re clear.) So I looked down at her and said, “Okay, Halo, that’s enough – I get the point� and began to remove my foot from tonguing distance. Snap! The angry, snarling beast was back, and I jumped into the furthest corner of the couch while Campbell’s mom ran to my rescue. As fast as she had switched into insaneo-dog, she was now a pudding puff laying in Campbell’s mom’s arms, licking her nostrils as if nothing had happened.
Fucking freaky. And we almost suffered a repeat of the panty incident. As I was packing my things to go home, she appeared behind me and made a beeline for a pile of clothes that I was folding and packing. Sure enough, she dug in and found the one pair of panties that I hadn’t had the chance to launder during the trip. Damned if I was going to sacrifice another pair – that shit is expensive! – so I braced myself and went in.
“Oh no you don’t, fucker,� I muttered, and put my hand on her back.
She froze as she started to growl.
I bit my lip and prepared for broken skin at best, a missing hand at worst.
Campbell watched, entertained by the whole fiasco.
Campbell's mother jumped up from the couch and hollered, “Halo!�
That provided me with enough time to snatch said panties from her laser-beam glare and shove them in a bag.
Campbell’s mother picked her up and said, “You leave Carly’s undies alone!� Halo responded by snapping out of the trance and cuddling her, then when she was freed again, she humped Campbell’s leg.
Next Christmas, I’m buying Halo doggie therapy.
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