Sooner or later everybody becomes something they never thought they'd be. A spouse with a mortgage and a kid. A clone of their own parent. A country music fan. Life can be terrifyingly unpredictable that way.
And so I find myself today, looking at a woman I never thought I'd become. Sleeves rolled up, sodden mass dangling from my fingertips, shivering my way across the yard with a flashlight at midnight to make a special trip directly to the burning barrel. I might not recognize myself, but there's no question that's me. I can tell from the whining.
I have become the owner of a dog that wears diapers.
It was never intended to be a regular thing. It was just a preventative/precautionary thing. At first it worked, too. Really well! As soon as I put pants on her bony little ass my ancient little dog stopped peeing inside the house!
For two whole days!
And then I guess she had a couldn't-hold-it-moment, and in that moment discovered that most miraculous property of modern dog diaper technology. That it makes pee magically disappear. It's like having your own personal urine fairy!
Once that little dog figured out how comfortable and easy it was to simply let loose in her conveniently attached pee-ceptacle there was no stopping her. Why squat in the wind and cold and damp if nobody could see when you were doing it inside and chase you out there anymore? They're little doggy stealth pants is what they are - hiding the crime, encouraging the behavior and perpetuating the need. I was totally suckered in, and by the time I figured out what was happening had already become a defenseless pawn of the absorbant canine garment industry.
When I started buying more than a pack a week is when I realized that I needed a more afforable, environmentally friendly solution, and bought the cloth diapers. They're not actually diapers per say as much as they are fashion pants with a tail hole that facilitate the sticking of a little absorbent pad into the crotch.
That's right. My ancient little twenty pound dog wears panties and a maxi-pad.
Like I say, it was never supposed to get this far. She can hold it - when she's in her little bed at night she pees not a drop, and if I physically pick her up and carry her outside in the morning she waits very comfortably until she gets outside. As soon as her little paws hit a horizontal surface, though, she gets her squat on.
Doesn't know to hold it anymore, maybe. Too old to care enough to hold it, probably. Never did like peeing outside, and finally just banked enough old lady attitude to call my bluff on the whole "you have to" position I took is my theory.
And called my bluff very effectively, too. I stepped over the line before I even realized that I might need to draw one the moment I brought that first pack home. Once you've done that the grey area becomes too morally torturous to contemplate. It's no longer a simple case of the poor old dear can't control her functions, it's probably time for her to be put down. You've already committed to basically controlling them for her. What's the cut off now?
"Sorry Allison. You went through eleven diapers last week and that was fine, but twelve? For twelve you die."
The things we do for love, eh? The smelly, ridiculous, expensive things we do for love.
Don't worry, though. I might put special, expensive clothes on my dog specifically for her to urinate on, but it's not like I have any country stations pre-programmed on my car radio or anything.
(Yes, country fans, consider my ass presented for it's whoopin'. I know I've got it coming.)
12 hours ago