I Like Dogs But Sometimes I Want to Kill Dog Owners

There was a day, not so long ago, when I found myself walking beside the row of commercial outlets next to my apartment building. I just had dinner, chicken fajitas with a side of salsa, and was pretty content with the world. This cute little boy with a gorgeous father (whose shirt said that he was a jiujitsu master) was distracting me. He was making weird faces, so I made weird faces back.

Then it happened. A soft, squishy sound.

I just stepped on dog poop.

And good lord, not even the hard, normal kind. It was watery and gross and well, just plain yucky. There was so much of it that my flip flops were rendered incapable of shielding my foot. I got crap on some toes.

I wanted to shoot the goddamn bastard who was walking his goddamn dog with an obviously upset goddamn stomach and who wasn’t civilized enough to bring a goddamn bag to pick up his own goddamn dog’s crap.

So I walked back up to my apartment and stopped by the parking area to wash some of the stuff off, fantasizing about ways I could get back at my obviously irresponsible neighbors.

There ought to be a law.

One fantasy involved me picking up the dogshit, heading to the perpetrator’s apartment, knocking on the door, and then saying, as soon as he (or she) opens the door, “Hey neighbor, I just realized you dropped something. Here’s your shit back.” Then I’ll throw it at him.

(I can set it on fire first for a more dramatic, theatrical experience).

Something similar happened again a few weeks ago, when JP and I stepped into our building elevator to head to work. This time a woman with a jittery, nervous smile was wrangling with a small, restless and frustratingly excitable dog, which was running all over the small space.

We didn’t mind them at first, and actually thought the whole thing was adorable, up until the small dog decided he wanted to make the elevator his own personal toilet, and started peeing all over the place. Perhaps it was naïve of me to believe that the woman would take responsibility for her dog’s, well, pee, but she instead just gave a quiet nervous laugh, offered us a small smile, and stepped out of the elevator as soon as she reached her floor. I wanted to throttle her.

We ended up going to work slightly smelling of dog piss.

I didn’t know someone had to actually publicly say this, but guys and girls, here’s the cardinal rule of pet-ownership: pick up after your pets. If you think that’s gross, or you can’t handle the responsibility, then don’t get a pet in the first place. You’re just giving all pet owners a bad name. And you’re making us non-pet owners want to strangle you.

The Pitfalls of Dating the Perfect Guy

Jt is not the easiest person to date, especially if you're the jealous or insecure type (just so we're clear, I'm not). He's good-looking, (very) intelligent, and successful. Seriously, everything I've been looking for in a man, I found in him. And he loves me. What more do I want?

At the risk of sounding ungrateful, there are a few pitfalls to dating the perfect guy:

1. It magnifies all of your own insecurities.

I once told my friend that I just realized Jt is everything I ever dreamed of becoming. First, he's a lawyer (and a very successful one). Second, he's an opinion writer for a popular newspaper. Third, he does freelance writing for art magazines, where he interviews up and coming artists, as well as a few established ones.

Now look at me. First, I'm a law student working my butt off to pass the bar. Second, I have a blog. Third, I do freelance writing for random magazines which would take me.

I'm like Jt redux. The diluted Jt. His sidekick.

I'm not an insecure person in general, but there are moments.

2. Eating out can be a hassle, especially if he stopped telling you he knows people in the restaurant who used to court him.

Here's a typical conversation.

"That was a nice dinner," I would say.

"Yes it was," he'd reply.

"The guy next to us was pretty cute."

Pause.

"What?"

"We dated maybe once or twice."

Repeat.

Then he said, a couple of nights ago, that he didn't tell me there was this guy in this restaurant in Greenbelt that he used to date because I might get jealous. Of course not, I said. Then wondered which one it was, and if he was cuter than me.

3. You don't want him to talk about his exes. Then you do. Then you don't. Then you imagine random guys he probably dated and why he ended up with you.

I was at his apartment when I saw a picture of this very good-lucking guy on his bookshelf.

"Wow. Hot guy," I said.

"Oh that's nothing," he replied.

"Who's he?"

"Someone I dated before."

Eyebrow raised, I swallowed a little bit of my own spit. "And?"

"He moved back to Malaysia."

"What does he do?"

"He's a model."

"Kill me now and stab me in the gut," I thought. I looked at the picture, imagined the guy without his shirt off, and I started to hate myself.

"Oh, that's not a real job," I mentioned offhandedly, if defensively.

He smiled.

Then I thought, "Please, please, please, let him be an idiot. Or else I may have to tell Jt myself he could do better."

I wouldn't exchange Jt for anyone in the world, and I do love him, but we have our moments.

In all fairness, another friend did point out that Jt is 16 years older than me. "That's a pretty decent headstart," he said, and I agreed, but that's probably something I should tell in a different story.

Photo taken here.