My child is driving me insane.

What? You all didn't know I had a kid? Let me tell you a little about him...

He's about twenty-five pounds, cute as a button, energetic as all get out (okay, really, what does that mean, "all get out"?), loveable, cuddly...oh, and he loves to lick his own balls. Or the spot where his balls used to be, at least. His name is Pippin...or The Pip, or Pippi, or Pipster, or "You little bastard!!", but the latter is usually reserved for the times when he destroys molding or carpet. I heart him with all my, um, heart. But let me tell you, the last few days...

He's been hyper lately, which is to be expected, because I've been lazy and haven't been running him like I should, so I accept that some of this is my fault. One of his favorite things to do when he's real hyper is see that I'm wearing shorts, then throw his body at me forcefully and drag his claws all down my leg. He also loves to run the "track" all around the apartment, but when he's especially high-energy, he won't take the time to go around me, but will try to go between my legs or just knock me down.

But this is all "normal" hyper activity...yesterday took the cake.

Jai and I went to the North Market to pick up our lunch and then headed over to Goodale Park to eat. Pip was a perfect angel in the Market, and walked nicely on his leash, and didn't shove his nose in anyone's crotch. We get to the park, and there's no leash law there, so we let him run and water every tree in sight while we ate. He made a little dachsund friend and happily violated her under our picnic table. He frolicked and sniffed and did all those really happy things that dogs do, ending with a big, air-pawing, joyous roll in the grass. Jai and I chuckled at the insanely happy look on Pip's panting face, and made a little conversation about why dogs roll in the grass.

Dogs roll in the grass because it's instinctual. If they were in the wild, they'd roll in something to mask their scent...usually something putrid, foul, or generally stomach turning.

Pip heard the call of the wild all right.

Here he comes back to the picnic table, prancing proudly like the showdog he was meant to be (damn you, mixed parentage!) and looking at me like, "Aren't I the cutest thi--"

"Oh dear God!" I cry, as the scent of decay and deadness and all things horrid and nauseating hit my nose. The little bastard had actually found something to mask his scent...as if the scent he was currently sporting (white tea scented dog shampoo, a little of my perfume and dog sweat) just wasn't satisfactory to him as a canine. Even my hands where I touched his head had picked up the smell. I say to Jai, "And now I have to put the little bastard in my car!"

So I walk the little bastard back to the car, careful not to touch any part of him if I can help it, and I'm desperately hoping that nobody thinks it's me that smells this way. We get home and its bathtime. Two shampoos later (and many, many dirty looks from my dog, who hates all things water...yeah, he usually pees if you say, "You wanna get in the shower!?!?" and reach for him) I've got him back to "normal" dog smell, and by now, he's so exhausted, he gets right in his bed and falls asleep, looking like a perfect little angel. How could I stay mad at that?


Now, if he looked like little Daphne...that's a different story.