Me: "I'm going to kill that dog!"
Kid: "No, mommy, no. He has on a magic necklace. He's protected."
Me: "There is no magic anywhere that's going to protect that dog. I'm going to beat him."
Kid: ***Sounds of stomping down the hall and door slamming***
Me: Under my breath, "Shit." Louder, "Honey, I'm just kidding. I'm not actually going to beat him."
Kid: "I'm still mad at you."
Me: "Great. Maybe you'll stay in your room for the rest of the night, then."
This happens at least once a week, usually more in way or another. Now last night - last night was a special case. Don't tell my husband, but I'm feeling a little hormonal. I was having one of those, I'm so angry at everyone and everything and have no idea why days, and both dogs I hate - my husband's and my daughter's - decided to test me to the ends of my sanity, all within about 30 seconds.
Fenway (hubby's dog), goes abso-freaking-lutely insane, barking like he's gone rabid while looking out the front window, where there is abso-freaking-lutely nothing going on. Now keep in mind, I've had it - I've had the thoroughly inhumane bark shock-collar on him all day, and he's been quiet since I harnessed him up with electrical zaps (go figure). In the short amount of time since its been taken off the dog (probably by my rescuer daughter), he goes ape shit. I scream at him, and he takes off down the hallway. I follow him to put the collar back on. This takes less than 30 seconds. In the short time I was gone, the other Dog I Hate, Ladybug - my kid's dog - has snatched the slice of pizza off my daughter's plate and run away with it.
Relevant point to make here - my daughter won't eat anything but cheese on her pizza. If there's a sliver of meat on it, she'd rather starve to death. Now granted, it's not like I slaved or anything - this is frozen pizza - but I had carefully pulled off all the pepperonis from exactly two slices of the damn thing and cooked it so she would have something to eat, and now half of her dinner is GONE. Damn dog. Hate that dog. I snap and flip out completely.
My kid is screaming hysterically as I grab the forty pound dog up by the scruff of its neck and drag it back to a bedroom to beat it. Thomas is watching in silence, knowing better than to try and intervene on the dog's behalf. Now keep in mind, I'm almost six months pregnant, and forty pounds of wiggling, panicked dog should probably slow me down. Oh, hell no. Not tonight. Tonight, I'm frigging Arnold Schwarzenegger and Ladybug is a 5 pound dumbbell. I smack her on the butt about four times. It's deeply satisfying. Hate that dog.
I come back out to the living room, and the child is looking at me with broken, soulful eyes. She says nothing. Thomas says nothing. I feel like complete and total shit, but I'm still too pissed off to care. I consider killing Ladybug and telling them she just went to sleep and I have no idea what happened. But to be fair, if I did that to Ladybug, I'd have to do it to Fenway too, and then I'm pregnant and divorced. Thomas has long said that he loves the dog more than me - a fact I've learned to live with. I'm going to outlive the stupid ass dog anyway. Na-na-na-na-boo-boo.
You'll notice I've not mentioned my dog, who I think is next to perfect. Her name is Tori, and she's an adorable, affectionate black Labrador. Who also happens to dig monstrous holes in our backyard. Que sera, I say. I've been meaning to plant a garden. She's just giving me a leg up on where to put the potatoes. :)
Anyway, I tell you all this because it's been pointed out to me that I make a lot of fun of my husband on this blog, and potentially portray myself to be the long-suffering-wife-who-makes-no-mistakes. In actuality, that's pretty damn close to the truth, but not always. Last night was not a shining moment for me. I was as close to canine homicide as I've ever been, and it wasn't a pretty sight.
Today, I'm feeling slightly better and can look at the situation a little more pragmatically. Yes, we have three dogs. Yes, it's a madhouse. No, I'm not going to kill them. Yet.