A Humorous Tale of Going Buh-Bye With My Daddy

I’m SO excited! It’s one of those rare days I get to take my Hoo-man out for the day. I love this big ol’ mook. He’s an awesome Paw-paw, that’s for damn sure. He’s always giving me treats, letting me lay against his leg when he’s busy writing, and generally leaving me the hell alone. Which is more than I can say for everyone else in this house.

He and I have an understanding. We’re both of that age where we enjoy peace and quiet. That middle-aged time of life when whoever is actually speaking better be complimenting us, or actually have something interesting to say. Hearing people talk just for the sake of making conversation, fuhgeddaboutit.

Our normal day-to-day is something I cherish. My Ma-Ma works a lot and even though she’s still my favorite out of everyone under this roof, The Big Guy is a close second and an awesome surrogate until she gets home.

Once in a while, we get to venture outside our norm. He actually has to go places occasionally. I know he disappears to this place called the “gym” usually a few times a week. Something about staving off a heart attack because of his less-than-ideal eating habits. I know the feeling, my family nickname is “Mooch”. (Fuck off for that, one, Russo) More power to him, I get a quick one-hour nap when he does that.

So he gets back from his mediocre middle-aged white man workout and checks his social media. Then this little Hemmingway-wanna-be writing site. Mediano, I think he calls it? Anywho, his feet taste especially nice after cardio and a lightweight upper body lift. Somewhat of a salty parmesan taste.

Luckily, he’s a bit of a clean freak, so once he showers, he says the magic words. “You wanna go BUH-BYE?” Time to get yappy. It’s a different bark than my usual one, the one I use on other dogs when I see them. The same one I used when the kids or even The Big Guy tries to hug my Ma-Ma. I get excited because I LOVE a good Buh-Bye

The Big Guy puts the leash on me, which I actually hate. I’m not some little kid, though I hate most of those, too. Loud, screaming, grabby. Like that dickhead Donald Trump. I’m better than that. But whatever floats his boat. We take a walk around the premises, I lose my water, sniff some shit, and away we go.

Time to take this show on the road. The Big Guy always insists on picking me up and putting me into his Dodge 1500 pickup truck. I hate that he babies me. I mean, I did fall, but that was like ONE time. He says, “People don’t forget”. I guess I should love him for babying me.

The truck is pretty cool to ride in. My Ma-Ma has a 2020 Kia Optima Turbo. That thing is all zoom-zoom. I like the feeling of that when she gooses it. However, I cannot see very well in that thing, even if the A/C is at least twice as good as Daddy’s truck. I’d rather be warm and see everything than chill and in the dark about what’s going on around me.

The Big Guy’s truck also has a baller center console. Instead of being one of those skinny, shorter, rectangular ones, it’s totally roomy and exactly square in shape. I can actually balance on it far better and can even brace myself if he brakes suddenly, without flying off like in Ma-Ma’s car. His looks like this:

Lunch Time

After a short drive, I see those golden arches that the Big Guy loves so much. I don’t mind them, either. I get tasty little bits of those perfect little cheeseburgers and the hot, salty french fries. Sounds like a win, to me.

I don’t get nearly as much as my Daddy, even though I whine at him for more while he’s stuffing giant bites into that maw of his. But he is the one that provides the yummy morsels that I actually do get. So I can’t really complain.

He also drops a few little bits here and there, and I rebound those things like Dennis Rodman did for the Chicago Bulls. I am quick to make sure that Daddy stays clean and once in a while, I get an actual decent reward.

He seems to think it’s funny to call me “Roomba”, for whatever reason. I don’t even know what that means. He says a lot of things that don’t make much sense to me, but at least I know the important words.

“Go outside?” “Go Potty?” “Go Buh-Bye?” “Wanna treat?” “The McRib is back?”

HOLY SHIT! THE MCRIB IS BACK?

OHMYGODILOVETHEMCRIB! It’s so messy. That’s perfect for a girl like me. The Big Guy tries to keep his fingers clean as he’s eating, but those cheap little brown napkins are bullshit. Daddy blows through them quicker than Aerosmith going through a mound of cocaine in the 70s.

Speaking of a crackhead, I’m right there on the spot, licking the BBQ sauce off The Big Guy's fingers. He doesn’t seem to mind as much as usual, probably because he doesn’t want to get it all over his truck. We have an ever-so-brief symbiotic relationship, and it’s everything we both thought it could be.

Daddy decides that the first stop is going to be the car wash. His truck is a little dirty on the outside. Will my belly full, and a nice seat next to him to sleep off my BBQ food-baby, we proceed to the next stop.

At The Car Wash

The car wash is somewhat out of our way, and it’s getting hot in this damn truck of his. Freakin’ fantastic. If he wasn’t so cheap and would get his goddamn freon recharged once in a while, I wouldn’t even care. I love getting out to go Buh-Bye even in the heat. But he’s got the keys, so it’s his call. Just remember I’m wearing a fur coat. Asshole.

We wheel up to his car wash place and there’s a line longer than the one was at Mickey D’s drive-through. Sadly, there will be no second McRib at the end of this line. We move ever so slowly, and I bark at the attendant who is signaling to Daddy. Good. Being mean brings me a little joy at least.

We start to go through this monstrosity and at least it’s darker and shady inside. That’s when I hear some noises. I’m not a fan of unusual noises.

Doorbells, for example. I hear them so often on the damn TV shows Ma-Ma and my Daddy watch. They chastise me for barking at them. “It’s just the TV, Libby! Calm down, Mooch!” Yeah yeah.

The sounds that the lawn people make when they’re taking care of our yard also pisses me off. I very much hate that loud-ass weed whacker, too. That thing sounds like someone is about to kick our door down and massacre my family with a chainsaw. This makes my blood pressure flare up like a scorching case of herpes. Not fun.

Speaking of my blood pressure, check out this crapola. The Big Guy thinks it’s funny to take non-stop pictures of me like I’m Lady Gaga or something. I think he was a paparazzi in a past life. He actually shot video of me this time at the car wash. Not my finest moment, the prick.

YOU try slowly rolling through an already-loud car wash and then suddenly have it hit Defcon 1 on noise. It SUCKS. I have sensitive ears. These things are big, like satellite dishes. That’s why I can hear a cheese wrapper from all the way upstairs with the TV on.

Well, it’s flippin’ loud going through that stupid car wash. That’s why I’m down near The Big Guy's big ‘ol feet as we hit the loud part of it. In fact, there really wasn’t enough room down there. After he cut the camera from filming, I scurried under the seat. He had no empathy and instead decide to snap yet another pic. Thanks a lot, Annie Leibovitz. I appreciate you commemorating my panic attack:

We finally pull out of the car wash and are finally headed to our next stop. The Big Guy tries to make up for it by putting some Snoop Dogg on the car stereo. I appreciate his olive-branch offering from the ‘hood. “Snoopy Doggy, dogggggggggg.”

“With so much drama in the Boy-a-See, it’s kinda hard being Mooch-D-O-Double G.”

WAIT IS THAT PETCO?

Petco, and All the Joy It Brings

Oh boy! It’s time to leash up and get inside one of my favorite places! Of course, this is after we explore the grassy area nearby. After the McRib, a couple of french fries, and the trauma that is the car wash, I definitely need to take a shit.

You don’t want to be the dog that drops a deuce in the middle of Petco. Even though the employees there are wonderful and I’m certain it happens frequently, not this bitch. And knowing The Big Guy, he’d likely take a pic, throw a filter on it and share that shit to Instagram. No class, that one.

One of the main reasons I dig Petco is that there’s so much to bark at. Mainly, the other dogs that people bring with them to shop. I like to assert my dominance by trying to bum rush the first dog I see. I don’t care how big or strong they are. You step to the first giant dog you see, and the rest of the inmates know not to step to you.

The Big Guy doesn’t approve of this little song and dance of mine, but he’s familiar with prison etiquette. I don’t think he’s actually BEEN there, but I can’t be sure that he hasn’t, either. He keeps me in line while also respecting my vibe. He’s an old-school Italian, I love that about him.

After walking down countless aisles, and crop-dusting a beagle and his hoo-man, I finally find what I’ve been searching for, a new toy. The selection process always plays out something like this:

“Libbers! What do you think of this one? It’s squeaky and chewy! And it’s YELLOW!”

I rarely commit to the first choice. I like to weigh my options first. He tries again.

“McButt! What do you think of this one? Bouncy and furry? And it’s YELLOW!”

Christ on a Milkbone, he still thinks I only like yellow toys. Little Girl, my original owner, his daughter, got the idea some years back that I liked yellow toys the best. I didn’t have the heart to break it to her that I’m actually colorblind to most colors. The two I actually can see somewhat decently are blue and yellow.

So this isn’t some major thing. Sure, I like the damn yellow. It’s usually brighter than blues are. Truth be told, I really don’t give a crap. Whatever makes them happy. Sure, Daddy. Bring on the yellow toys.

I finally decide on a yellow snake-type creature. It seems to squeak in a few different locations. I shake it violently and The Big Guy laughs. He thinks it’s funny to see me attack my toys, always yelling, “Kill it! Get it!” I think he has some repressed rage deep down inside. Maybe that prison thing did happen.

Well, our venture to the outside world wraps up. We make the short drive home and I’m happy to be back home where the central air is frosty and my Mama is happy to see me. It’s nice to cuddle again and recharge my batteries.

Getting Ma-Ma cuddles is the BEST. Even though I love going on adventures with The Big Guy, coming home to Mama is awesome. Daddy shows her my new toy. He tosses it in front of me and tells me to “KILL IT”.

I like to give them a blank stare sometimes. I’m not your trained seal, Buck-o. I do my killing, AFTER dinner. Yep, I’m already thinking ahead to the next meal. They don’t call me Mooch for nothing.

Plus I’m kind of tired. A trip out into the great big world kind wears me out, the little dog that I am. While I do feel ten foot tall and bulletproof, the sad state of affairs is that I’m really only about 10 inches tall. These little legs have to make a lot more steps to get me places than a big dog takes.

I’m also ten years old now. They joke about how many naps I take in a day, but I’m pretty much a middle-aged lady at this stage. I have to save my energy for things that really matter. Like console surfing in Daddy’s truck, sniffing for pee trails outside, and bitch-slapping the occasional smaller dog that gets too close. I’m small, but I’m mighty.

Well, it’s getting late. You get the gist of this. I loved my day with my Daddy, getting to go Buh-Bye is a special treat. We saw many things, rediscovered the joy of the McRib, survived the scary car wash, and safely secured a new toy for me to play “Attack Dog” with. Time to fall asleep and chase the rabbids again, as I do in my dreams. Good night!