Broccoli Is Gross

For those of you who have considered me shallow and materialistic, rest assured you are still correct in your assessment. However, I recently abandoned my need for all things designer after I received a glorious gift in the form of a giant, old, fat-lump covered lab named Broccoli.

Broc was a day away from climbing the ‘ole golden stairway (with his arthritic hips) before I selflessly traded my body and persuaded Mike to let me foster him for, “ONLY ONE WEEK ERIN- I MEAN IT THIS TIME blah blah blah.” Whatever. We now own three dogs.

Annnnnd, I am 100%, mouth watering, soul shaking in L-O-V-E. I.Am.Obsessed. It didn’t take Broc long to train me. Every morning, I am awakened by the sound of him licking his phantom balls.  I let him outside to take his first of approximately, thirty gigantic dumps throughout the day. I then breastfeed him and we go back to bed.

A few days ago, I had just crawled back under the covers when I felt something wet splatter across my face (it is even grosser than that). Since I have long graduated from college, I just assumed it was Broccoli’s slobber. Without opening my eyes, I reached over and wiped my face on Mike’s pillow and fell back asleep. An hour later, my daughter came in, “Mom.  Mom.  Mom.  Mooo-oooom.  Wake up.  Mom. Mom.  Get up.  Mom.”  

I pretended to still be asleep, hoping she would go away. In hindsight, my lack of movement at this particular moment will probably haunt her for the rest of her life.  finally groaned and sat up, “Whaaaaaaaat do you waaaaaaaant child? I have already given you my soul.....”

I rubbed my eyes and blinked as my eyes came into focus. My house looked like a CSI set except like, even better. Blood was literally splattered EVERYWHERE....me, the ceiling, the walls, sheets, windows, carpet, rugs etc. I quickly looked down to see if I had suffered a particularly deep paper cut or perhaps a fatal stab wound to my aorta. Nothing stung. I turned my attention to the dogs where Broccoli was fully engaged in an ass-licking session with himself.

*Despite being covered in blood, his benevolence towards the situation comforted me. I decided I would have him certified as a service dog to assist me with the PTSD I would inevitably suffer from following this incident.

My daughter and I soon figured out that Broc had somehow managed to cut his tail. Annnnnd.... the problem was that because Broccoli is so f'ing happy living in a gated community and being doted on 24/7, his tail NEVER stops wagging. Every time we managed to stop the bleeding, he would recall his newfound affluence and that I am now his mother, and the splattering of blood would resume.

In the midst of the chaos, my dad stopped by and immediately started wiping down walls. I softly smiled. It feels really great to know someone has your back, if you ever need help covering up a crime scene. And like the true Italians they are, my daughters went to work mopping up the blood all over the floor, while I loaded Broccoli into the car to go to the vet.

Unfortunately, the sheer trajectory force of the wag caused blood to splatter all over the vet’s office.  Blood flung onto their expensive food display and all over the other dogs in the waiting room, including an ancient one who was about to be put down. I felt momentarily guilty, until I realized Broccoli had given the owners a precious gift of more time with their beloved dog, since we took their place in the schedule.  

I didn’t want to deal with the hassle, so I decided not to bother telling the other dog owners that Broccoli was a rescue and might have AIDS. I then waited while he got shaved, glued, wrapped and coned. We climbed back into my bloody car and I glanced in the rearview mirror.  The happy bastard was still wagging away like nothing ever happened.  XO