French Fries and 5 am Rage.

Allow me to preface today's worthless rant by saying that 99% of the time, my wife is wonderful and life with her is fun. This morning would be part of that 1%.

My wife is not as militant about her eating as I am, and occasionally she will eat fast food from places I won't even consider. Last night, she decided to have McDonald's. That isn't really that big a deal, and certainly not worth blogging about. However, what she did when she didn't finish all of her french fries is.

With the exception of the occasional piece of fat from a steak or pork chop, our dogs do not get human food. Yes, I am a freak about what my dogs eat, too; they get high quality, all natural, corn-free hippie dog food. My wife, brilliant as she is, decided that last night, the dogs deserved the remainder of her french fries. Greasy, salty french fries. Now, I know that some of you will say, "They're dogs, they would eat shit if you didn't stop them...blah blah blah." Well yeah, maybe if I raise my dogs to eat whatever shit they can find, their digestive systems could handle half an order of french fries. Our older dog, who we rescued at age 6 and ate who knows what before we got him didn't seem to have any issue with the tasty fries. Our Shar Pei puppy, Maynard, who is 8.5 months old and has only ever eaten the hippie dog food, did. I went to bed around 1 am, which is normal for me since I work a lot of late night shifts.

3:08 am. That's what time I woke up to the sound of Maynard in the process of puking. Once I came out of my dream state (where I was riding an ATV in downtown Omaha...) and realized what I was hearing, I was fortunate enough to get to him and put an old towel down just before he yakked. Once he went and got a drink and laid back down, I fell back asleep, not too phased by the whole thing.

5:03 am. That's what time I woke up with Maynard's nose in my face, giving me the standard "You better take me out, quick!" grunt. If you've ever met a Shar Pei, you know that their short snout makes them sound a lot like the common pig, which is kinda cute when friends are visiting at 7 pm, not great in your face at 5:05 am. In my PJs, I take him into the frigid morning air, and all he does is take a leak. Damn you, dog.

5:12 am. That's what time I start hearing the absolutely insane and sinister sounds coming from Maynard's stomach. Some of the sounds were amusing, some of them were very blunt warnings that at any minute, Maynard's ass could explode all over the living room. I decide that it might be a good idea to take him back outside. I'm more than a little irritated at this point, because I know exactly why this is happening. French fries. Damn you, woman. We walk around for a while, me freezing my ass off, Maynard being distracted by wind through trees and anything that even pretends to move. Puppies are fun like that. He does nothing, so tired, impatient, and growing angrier with every second spent outside in the dark at 5 o'fucking clock in the morning, I take him back inside.

5:38 am. That's what time I realize that the sounds are getting louder, more intense, and starting to sound like demons chanting curses in Latin. Maynard is whining, so I get back up to take him out again. Now, I'm just pissed. Yeah, I feel bad for Maynard, an upset stomach sucks. But, that empathy is far overshadowed by the rage I feel about having to go outside again at 5 o'motherfucking clock in the morning while my wife stays snug under her electric blanket. You might ask why I didn't make her handle all of this. Well, she has that whole "I'm in a wheelchair" excuse that she uses to make me handle anything at night that requires a quick response. Yeah, I know, lazy, right? Anyway, I bundle up, take Maynard out, cursing every step of the way. Damn you, woman. Damn you, dog. And fuck you, McDonald's.

I don't know if your dogs are like mine, but my dogs will not take a shit until they have found the exact perfect spot in which to do so. Their sphincters could be on the edge of unleashing Armageddon and they wouldn't go unless they were completely satisfied with the aura or the view or whatever the fuck dogs look for in a place to shit. So, we wander around the forest while Maynard searches for crapping mecca, me cursing everyone in my house, everyone who has ever had anything to do with McDonald's, and the French. Yes, I know "french fries" is just a name, but it's way too fucking early in the morning for me to consider thinking logically. After what seems like half an hour, Maynard gets it out of his system. We go home, and I crawl back into bed, not being able to help wondering how many times in the previous hour or so I had said any variation of the word "fuck." It has to be a record. Quentin Tarantino would be proud.

So yeah, if you don't make a habit of feeding your dogs greasy crap, don't feed them greasy crap. I'm mostly talking to you, wife. While I love you a lot, I hated you at 5 this morning.

I told you this was going to be worthless, yet you read the whole thing anyway. Haha, Bitches.