The Littlest Shit
It was time for the Jones family to upgrade our antiquated kitchen set. The wheeled chairs were light brown pleather and squeaked when my sister and I had spinning contests before dinner. Naturally I'd win because I weighed more but that never stopped her in a spin duel. The chairs reclined slightly and had a brassy gold base that matched the legs of the peculiarly large table. And it was a beast of a table. Because the oval tabletop was so wide, the base had to be extended so that it wouldn't be top-heavy. It fit four, maybe five people, but because of the golden spider-like legs and King Arthur tabletop, it should've fit closer to ten. Either way, it was hogging up the dining room and was an embarrassing eyesore we needed to get rid of.
So my Dad put an ad in the paper, and we got two phone calls. The first person ended up flaking on us, but the second one was more promising. In the midst of initial phone discussion my Mom heard the high-pitched yaps of puppies in the background and asked the potential table owner about them. They were Chihuahua breeders and just had a batch. Herd. Litter. Whatever. This was coincidentally the same time my parents were considering a dog, preferably a smaller one that wouldn't be too big for us kids. I was eight and Jenna was six. My mom put the woman on hold and we congregated around the table like generals in the war room, and after a brief family talk we decided to offer a deal with the second caller. The deal was: you give us our Chihuahua of choice and $100, and you get yourself a massive table courtesy of the Jones family dining room. Within the hour the woman came over to view the table with her husband, the deal was offered and accepted, and we were quickly on our way to owning a tiny dog.
The next day we went to the family's small apartment a few miles from us and I wondered how the gargantuan table would even fit in there. But the thought fled as quickly as it came, for I didn't care because I was going to get a dog. My own dog! But this small dog wouldn't be my first pet. In kindergarten I won two goldfish at a school carnival and named them Bert and Ernie. Bert and Ernie were everything you could ever ask for in a pair of goldfish: quiet, cramped, and gold. They enjoyed the confines of their small tank with fake coral and fluorescent colors that would serve as their home, and it was understood that I would be responsible for feeding and taking care of the new Joneses. Unfortunately my parents must not have been aware of the fact that I was five years old. I once forgot to put on my underwear before school and was terrified when I went to the bathroom to discover I was freeballin' it. I'm pretty sure I started crying because I didn't know what was going on, but after a few moments of confusing silence I collected myself and went back to my place on the floor to play the kazoo with the rest of the class. I was obviously not suited for this type of responsibility, and one morning before leaving for school I checked my buddies' tank and found both of them floating atop the unnaturally blue water. I called my Mom over and, once again, started crying because seeing her face made me realize they were more than sleeping. Of course I forgot to feed them the night before, and in doing so forced my two aquatic friends into an eternal dirt nap, or water nap. I'm not really sure if that phrase applies to water. But whatever the phrasing, Kindergarten was a bitch that day. After returning home from a long day of gruesome mental imagery we waited for my Dad where my Mom gave him the bad news. We then had a funeral for the dearly beloved and the Jones family huddled around our guest bathroom toilet, said some heartfelt words about Bert and Ernie, and gave them their proper burial.
So this whole new dog thing was big for me. Thankfully I was a couple years older and knew what it felt like to lose a friend--nay, two friends. When we walked inside the under-lit apartment the dogs were yapping loudly because of the doorbell. We walked over to the dogs feeding from their mother and our Chihuahua of choice was obvious. There were three to choose from and two of them just looked stupid. Like, retarded stupid. The one we chose had light, golden brown hair, a fat, dark snout, a snow white belly, and didn't look nearly as retarded as the other ones. By default Chihuahuas will always look dumb but this pudgy one was just cuter than your run-of-the-mill, long faced, shaky little rodent. They got their table and we got our dog; it was the perfect barter.
We had to wait an eternal two weeks before finally getting him, but once he brought him home he was an immediate member of the Jones family. For about a month we didn't have a name for him and called him everything from "Max" to "Little Shit" (well, my Dad called him "Little Shit". I didn't start to experiment with cussing until the seventh grade). One morning while rummaging through my sister's closet for some reason I came across an old Ziggy calendar my parents had from the late 70s. Ziggy was a greeting card character created by comic artist Tom Wilson in 1971 that developed into a full-blown comic syndication. It still appears in hundreds of newspapers around the world, and the Ziggy character is the spokesperson for The National Foster Parent Association. The name seemed like a good fit for our chubby, affable dog, so from then on the first canine member of our family was forever known as Ziggy.
But throughout the years he was called many things. "Little Shit" often turned into "That Goddamn Little Piece of Shit" when he ran away, "Stupid Ass Dog" when he'd shit on the carpet once a year just to keep us on our feet, and "Stinky Shit Dog" when he ran through the sprinklers then immediately came to sit next to us on the couch. A friend of mine called him "Chris" because he reminded him of the late Chris Farley's happy-go-lucky fatness, and a slightly less intelligent friend called him "Pico" for reasons unknown to anyone. But regardless of what you called him, Ziggy was always the kicked-back fatty who was eager to hump your forearm if you riled him up. Sometimes he just wouldn't care and would attack your arm if you were picking up a quarter off the ground. Other times he'd snuggle his way under you while watching TV and then slowly make his move. All of a sudden you'd look down and he was making love to your elbow. We decided that we had to do one of two things with his burgeoning hormones: breed him, or neuter him. We decided both.
When I was a junior in high school I had a friend who lived behind us that had a female full-bred Chihuahua named Lady. We waited until Lady was in heat and let them loose in my friend's backyard. Ziggy did not treat her like a lady and impregnated that little bitch with four puppies. We took one, named him Roscoe, and neutered Ziggy a week after he was born. A couple years later we tried breeding Roscoe but lost hope after he couldn't figure it out. Ziggy's sex drive was not passed down to this particular offspring, and neither was his intelligence. Roscoe is about as smart as a pile of hair, and because of it, is a bit more entertaining than his dad. So after we chopped off Ziggy's nuts (my Dad rarely uses the term "neuter" for some reason) he mellowed out even more and basically just ate and slept. He was a sad Chihuahua with no testicles, but on a couple occasions I walked into a room and he'd be air-humping with a desperate look in his eye, kind of like the soldier that loses a limb during war yet still believes he can utilize the arm after its amputated. But Ziggy didn't have a ghost limb, he had ghost balls, and I think he secretly resented my Dad for it.
But as he got older Ziggy had more important things to worry about than his lack of manhood. A little over a year ago he was diagnosed with the canine equivalent of leukemia. Then his hearing went. Next were cataracts. Finally were prostate problems, which caused him to scream when he peed and fall over when he shit. It hurt him so much to he'd prop himself upwards to relieve the tension, but just end up cramping over and giving up. So he rarely ate and lost a lot of weight, making him go from Chris Farley to David Spade in the matter of a couple months.
Yesterday Ziggy had a stroke. Jenna found him in the morning still alive but paralyzed, so my family finally took him to the vet and put him to sleep around 11:00am. We got Ziggy when I started the third grade, and I'm now a year out of college. I had him when I learned how to multiply and when I learned how to write a corporate memo. He was my dog when I had my first crush and when I experienced my first adult heartbreak. From elementary school through college, that little dog has been a big part of my life. So the next time you're out having a drink, drink a beer in remembrance of Ziggy. That Little Shit will be missed.
So my Dad put an ad in the paper, and we got two phone calls. The first person ended up flaking on us, but the second one was more promising. In the midst of initial phone discussion my Mom heard the high-pitched yaps of puppies in the background and asked the potential table owner about them. They were Chihuahua breeders and just had a batch. Herd. Litter. Whatever. This was coincidentally the same time my parents were considering a dog, preferably a smaller one that wouldn't be too big for us kids. I was eight and Jenna was six. My mom put the woman on hold and we congregated around the table like generals in the war room, and after a brief family talk we decided to offer a deal with the second caller. The deal was: you give us our Chihuahua of choice and $100, and you get yourself a massive table courtesy of the Jones family dining room. Within the hour the woman came over to view the table with her husband, the deal was offered and accepted, and we were quickly on our way to owning a tiny dog.
The next day we went to the family's small apartment a few miles from us and I wondered how the gargantuan table would even fit in there. But the thought fled as quickly as it came, for I didn't care because I was going to get a dog. My own dog! But this small dog wouldn't be my first pet. In kindergarten I won two goldfish at a school carnival and named them Bert and Ernie. Bert and Ernie were everything you could ever ask for in a pair of goldfish: quiet, cramped, and gold. They enjoyed the confines of their small tank with fake coral and fluorescent colors that would serve as their home, and it was understood that I would be responsible for feeding and taking care of the new Joneses. Unfortunately my parents must not have been aware of the fact that I was five years old. I once forgot to put on my underwear before school and was terrified when I went to the bathroom to discover I was freeballin' it. I'm pretty sure I started crying because I didn't know what was going on, but after a few moments of confusing silence I collected myself and went back to my place on the floor to play the kazoo with the rest of the class. I was obviously not suited for this type of responsibility, and one morning before leaving for school I checked my buddies' tank and found both of them floating atop the unnaturally blue water. I called my Mom over and, once again, started crying because seeing her face made me realize they were more than sleeping. Of course I forgot to feed them the night before, and in doing so forced my two aquatic friends into an eternal dirt nap, or water nap. I'm not really sure if that phrase applies to water. But whatever the phrasing, Kindergarten was a bitch that day. After returning home from a long day of gruesome mental imagery we waited for my Dad where my Mom gave him the bad news. We then had a funeral for the dearly beloved and the Jones family huddled around our guest bathroom toilet, said some heartfelt words about Bert and Ernie, and gave them their proper burial.
So this whole new dog thing was big for me. Thankfully I was a couple years older and knew what it felt like to lose a friend--nay, two friends. When we walked inside the under-lit apartment the dogs were yapping loudly because of the doorbell. We walked over to the dogs feeding from their mother and our Chihuahua of choice was obvious. There were three to choose from and two of them just looked stupid. Like, retarded stupid. The one we chose had light, golden brown hair, a fat, dark snout, a snow white belly, and didn't look nearly as retarded as the other ones. By default Chihuahuas will always look dumb but this pudgy one was just cuter than your run-of-the-mill, long faced, shaky little rodent. They got their table and we got our dog; it was the perfect barter.
We had to wait an eternal two weeks before finally getting him, but once he brought him home he was an immediate member of the Jones family. For about a month we didn't have a name for him and called him everything from "Max" to "Little Shit" (well, my Dad called him "Little Shit". I didn't start to experiment with cussing until the seventh grade). One morning while rummaging through my sister's closet for some reason I came across an old Ziggy calendar my parents had from the late 70s. Ziggy was a greeting card character created by comic artist Tom Wilson in 1971 that developed into a full-blown comic syndication. It still appears in hundreds of newspapers around the world, and the Ziggy character is the spokesperson for The National Foster Parent Association. The name seemed like a good fit for our chubby, affable dog, so from then on the first canine member of our family was forever known as Ziggy.
But throughout the years he was called many things. "Little Shit" often turned into "That Goddamn Little Piece of Shit" when he ran away, "Stupid Ass Dog" when he'd shit on the carpet once a year just to keep us on our feet, and "Stinky Shit Dog" when he ran through the sprinklers then immediately came to sit next to us on the couch. A friend of mine called him "Chris" because he reminded him of the late Chris Farley's happy-go-lucky fatness, and a slightly less intelligent friend called him "Pico" for reasons unknown to anyone. But regardless of what you called him, Ziggy was always the kicked-back fatty who was eager to hump your forearm if you riled him up. Sometimes he just wouldn't care and would attack your arm if you were picking up a quarter off the ground. Other times he'd snuggle his way under you while watching TV and then slowly make his move. All of a sudden you'd look down and he was making love to your elbow. We decided that we had to do one of two things with his burgeoning hormones: breed him, or neuter him. We decided both.
When I was a junior in high school I had a friend who lived behind us that had a female full-bred Chihuahua named Lady. We waited until Lady was in heat and let them loose in my friend's backyard. Ziggy did not treat her like a lady and impregnated that little bitch with four puppies. We took one, named him Roscoe, and neutered Ziggy a week after he was born. A couple years later we tried breeding Roscoe but lost hope after he couldn't figure it out. Ziggy's sex drive was not passed down to this particular offspring, and neither was his intelligence. Roscoe is about as smart as a pile of hair, and because of it, is a bit more entertaining than his dad. So after we chopped off Ziggy's nuts (my Dad rarely uses the term "neuter" for some reason) he mellowed out even more and basically just ate and slept. He was a sad Chihuahua with no testicles, but on a couple occasions I walked into a room and he'd be air-humping with a desperate look in his eye, kind of like the soldier that loses a limb during war yet still believes he can utilize the arm after its amputated. But Ziggy didn't have a ghost limb, he had ghost balls, and I think he secretly resented my Dad for it.
But as he got older Ziggy had more important things to worry about than his lack of manhood. A little over a year ago he was diagnosed with the canine equivalent of leukemia. Then his hearing went. Next were cataracts. Finally were prostate problems, which caused him to scream when he peed and fall over when he shit. It hurt him so much to he'd prop himself upwards to relieve the tension, but just end up cramping over and giving up. So he rarely ate and lost a lot of weight, making him go from Chris Farley to David Spade in the matter of a couple months.
Yesterday Ziggy had a stroke. Jenna found him in the morning still alive but paralyzed, so my family finally took him to the vet and put him to sleep around 11:00am. We got Ziggy when I started the third grade, and I'm now a year out of college. I had him when I learned how to multiply and when I learned how to write a corporate memo. He was my dog when I had my first crush and when I experienced my first adult heartbreak. From elementary school through college, that little dog has been a big part of my life. So the next time you're out having a drink, drink a beer in remembrance of Ziggy. That Little Shit will be missed.
posted by Ryan at 8:18 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home