Kicked the Dog

I kicked Paddy on his big rump this morning and have spent all morning apologizing to him. It had to be done, however. I was taking the boys out for a morning walk/gimp. For those of you who are not familiar with my youngest child's rambunctiousness, I need to tell you that normally he's an angel on a leash. He has a regal trot of a canine Clydesdale. That is until he sees 1) fat squires, 2) much-too-happy cats, 3) smug rabbits, and/or 4) other dogs who look like they might want to play. When he sees one or combination of the above, he just goes. Paddy is the strongest dog I've ever met. He's 83 pounds of sinewy muscles and 2 pounds of hair and teeth. When he gets into this drunken donkey trance, he would lurch forward, buck repeatedly, yank, pull, and run with everything he's got. I usually try to hold on to the end of the leash with my dear life, and it normally gets me dragged down the street, on my back or side. I once threw myself on top of him in hope that he might get the message. He just shrugged it off, stood up straight on all four, and carried me with him. So far, I have mangled my thumb, skinned my palms, enjoyed road rash on my side, arms, and back, and sported bruises as a result of my futile attempts. We've tried everything short of a shock collar, which Wil is lobbying for. I just can't do it. Not yet anyway. So back to today. We were walking uphill on a pavement slick with last night's rain. Then he spotted her. A pretty chocolate lab. With a wagging tail and a tennis ball in her mouth. If that's not an invitation for fun, then what is? The problem was she was about 30 feet below us on a downhill slope. With his first forward lurch, my foot hit a slick spot and I started to fall backward. Thankfully, the other foot had enough wits to step back and catch our fall. He kept jumping and yanking, and I had a vision of me, Brutus, and The Fetus being dragged downhill on our stomachs by this manic ball of fur. I had to do something big to break the trance. So I kicked him on his fleshy tush. He whipped around to look at my face faster than I could yell his name. I could have sworn those big Puss-in-Boots eyes were filled with tears. People around us were already half way done reporting animal abuse to the MPs by the time we started moving in an orderly fashion again. I gave him a bit more food when we got home to buy his love back. And it seemed to work. He's taking his morning nap right by my feet.

Thank you for your encouraging words about Wil being gone. I know I'm just one of thousands of military wives in the same boat, but that's not really the main reason why I'm super upset. I'm pissed that someone is picking on my husband and I can't do a damn thing about it. This certain person has been treating My Love as if he was a sham because of his injury. Look here, Stupid, My Soldier has served honorably for these past 9 years. He was injured 3 deployments ago during a mission in a war zone. And nobody wanted to fix him. Until now that he's beginning to lose feelings in his leg. Feelings that he won't get back. Yet, he will be the first to raise up his hand when anyone asks for a volunteer. And this is how you treat him? So much for leading by example. You are on my It-List. Mark my word, if he comes back home hurt more than he did when he left, you can kiss your sweet retirement good-bye. You don't mess with my family. Ok, I feel better now. Shall proceed with more light-hearted stories of doggie farts as a result of fat boy food. Right after I get my driver's license today. Wish me luck!