He was outside doing what he does best, fucking up my grass and shitting on my nice new sod. I glared at him through the window, milk bone in hand, waiting for the mighty gallop up my deck and pitter patter of his feet at my kitchen door. He’s a big bastard too, not huge, but he’s big. He’s all of one hundred pounds and shaped like a lawn dart. He eats, he shits and he sleeps. No, I’m not talking about my father. I’m talking about Chino, my greyhound.
About two years ago I had this bright idea that I’d like to get a dog. I was settled into my new house and thought a dog would make a great addition. My first choice was an Australian Shepherd. We went to a few breeders and I concluded that it was just too much hair for me. My friend had two greyhounds and they seemed like cool dogs. So, we sojourned down to the greyhound rescue place to take a look. There were probably about thirty dogs there at that time. Some were lethargic-looking, others seemed kind of healthy. Then there was Chino. He strolled up to me without a care in the world. He stuffed his nose under my nut sack and then head butted me in the balls. “He’s the one.” I said to my then girlfriend. At that time, he was fresh off the track and weighing in at a paltry sixty-three pounds, race weight they told me. His name was See Spot Run (terrible fucken name, but whatever..). They told me I’d have to wait a few days so they could neuter him and make sure he was healthy (what a load of shit that was... two thousand dollar vet bill three days after I got him home but that’s another poop report). So three days and a five hundred dollar “donation” later Chino was in the back of my F150 on his way home to retirement.
Greyhounds are different then most dogs; they kind of do there own thing. You can almost equate them to cats. Cats don’t need us, they tolerate us. The same applies to greyhounds. As long as I feed him twice a day and let him out, he’s happy. He doesn’t need to be all over me or sleep next me. It’s almost like he’s a freeloading room mate that shits outside.
About two weeks into his new surroundings, Chino figured out how to open the bathroom door and scavenge the toilet for prizes. Anyone in my house knows that you must flush the toilet. If I find a floater in the bowl, there will be hell to pay. Therefore, Chino never found a floating snickers bar in the commode, but he did find a lot of baby wipes. He seemed to have an affinity for them. Nary a day would go by that I wouldn’t come home to soggy baby wipes sitting on my living room carpet. I yelled at him, smacked him with a newspaper and locked him in his cage when I was gone. But it didn’t matter. If he was out, his first goal was to get in that bathroom to eat a nice snack of used baby wipes out of the toilet. Then it stopped. I came home three days in a row to no baby wipes scattered on my living room carpet. Maybe my training has worked! Fuck Cesar Milan, I’m the goddamn greyhound whisperer!
I came home that fourth day and Chino didn’t move from his cage. Normally, he’s at the front door as soon as I enter my house. But that day, he was lying in his cage. I walked over to him (I honestly thought he was dead, that’s how still he was) and scratched his head. He looked at me with pain in his eyes. I picked up his bowl to make his dinner and he slowly got up out of his crate. He knows the drill, no dinner before you go outside to shit. Those are the rules. He walked over to the door, I opened it and out he went. Normally, I don’t watch him when he’s outside. Personally, I’m an extremely shameful shitter. Therefore, I give him some time to himself. This particular day, I decided to look up and see where he was. Like every other day, he was squatting right in front of my shed door (isn’t it amazing that they know exactly where to shit so you will either have to jump it or step in it?) and backing out a shit that would make any horse proud; but he was having some trouble. I could see the look of strain and disdain on his face, I know it all too well. Something was blocking the pipe. He strained and pushed trying to remove the impending road block. He would move a few steps (in mid-squat) and push some more but to no avail. After about ten minutes of this, I decided to see what the hell was going on. I started walking closer to him and he wouldn’t even look at me. I peeked around behind his tail and low and behold half of a baby wipe was sticking out his ass.
“I fucken knew it! Red Handed!” Chino just glared at me. The look of embarrassment and shame crept to his face. He knew all to well he done fucked up. “Gotta get the gloves for this. You’re a douche by the way.” I walked back to the house to grab the mortician gloves. You know the ones. They are huge, black and go up to your shoulders. Everybody should have a pair. Had to put on the safety glasses too. Who the fuck knows what else my fly out after the baby wipe?
I walked back outside, ready for battle, and there Chino stood. He was in the exact same spot where I’d left him. He looked up at me. “You ready dumb ass?” He put his head down and I yanked out the baby wipe. He whimpered like a little bitch. “You’re such a vag.” And that quickly it was out, he scooted forward and dropped a couple more brown yard gnomes. Then he made a b-line for the back door. He hadn’t forgotten about his awaiting dinner.
When the night was over, Chino pooped out a total of 12 baby wipes. Some were rolled up into his turds and I didn’t see them until I had to pick them up. Some came out completely whole. And for his efforts Chino got a trip to the vet and no food for two days.
After all this, and a five hundred dollar vet bill, I figured a six dollar hasp would do the trick to keep the bathroom closed. We are well over a year later and Chino is doing just fine. The only things he eats now are the occasional squirrel and his sixty dollar a bag dog food. Who says dogs have it rough?
