My oldest child asked years ago to adopt a dog. Not just any dog, a Boston terrier, was requested. Since she is ill I said ok. I think that I made a mistake.
First thing that dog did was make our ancient dog ask if we had lost our mind. The Boston would run madly around the inside of her bed. It looked like the strangest sort of speed freak. I found out later that Boston owners call it the “B.T. 500.” The race went on and on.
J called me at work on day frantic, “Mom, The Bug is dying. ” she was crying and difficult to understand. I asked why did she think that LBug was dying. “Her poop is yellow.”
Ah, I think I have the answer. “Bright yellow? Like the tulips she ate yesterday?” I hear a sniffle.
“Oh, um, yea. Never mind. I guess she will be okay.”
She has pierced my nose while trying to bite another dog while I was sitting on the floor. She sliced through a vein in my hand another day. She always has a REALLY good reason for biting me.
Then on a certain day one Christmas break I noticed that dog was staring at me. She looked like she was high. I watched LBug for a short period and finally asked if there was any chance that the terror had sniffed glue or smoked something. No one had a clue. Then I spotted a blister pack of Sudafed. Some of the meds were missing. Geez, the dog had taken Sudafed.
We lived through that experience . The next day LBug had a hangover. Every noise caused that dog to wince in pain. I told her that it what happens to puppies that take sinus meds.
The reason I’m thinking about that dog? She is sitting near me with her bottom facing me. I think pretty much sums up the Boston terrier (terrorist) and her attitude toward me.