Still Hate The Dog.

I hate the dog.

I used to love him but the winds of change began blowing while I was pregnant and became an F5 tornado during maternity leave. His neediness and disregard for personal space were once charming, but grew more annoying at the same rate as my stomach and became unbearable with a newborn in tow. In the past few days my feelings have reappeared with vengeance. While I like two word blog post titles, "Dog Hate" or even "Dog Hate II" leave the reference open to anyone's hate and any dog, but I want it to be crystal clear that both the dog and hate to which I refer are mine.

I hate the dog. Let me count the ways.

1. He spent most of the 12 hour drive to NY standing in the 'wayback' (a nifty name my brothers and I came up with circa 26 years ago) of the wagon. SPORTwagen. Not mini-van, not a Cutlass with faux wood, people, a SPORTwagen. This critical, not because the distinction is important for my self-image and personal brand (it is), but because the hatchback space in a sportwagen is not large enough for the dog to stand up straight. He didn't care. He bowed his head and blocked my view. Jackass.

2. While standing and incredibly stoned on doggie Prozac, he managed to breathe heavily over my mom's shoulder for at least three of the twelve hours we were car-bound. I told her to punch him in the face, but she refused to resort to violence in front of her grandson. Instead, she gently pushed a map in his face when he got too close and leaned forward to eat her sandwich lest he swipe it. He was lucky I was driving and unable to reach him.

3. He tracked down the lone spot of raccoon poop in my parent's backyard and rolled in it. I understand this is standard practice for a dog, but he never actually catches his prey after rolling in its scent. He's like a 40 year old former high school football star who thinks he should still be starting as quarterback. My mom promptly hosed him down and literally washed away his dreams.

4. His giant head banged open my bedroom door this morning at 6:22am. The trouble I'd taken to morning-proof with dark blankets over the windows was all for naught. The baby started crying at 6:23.

5. There are few vacancies at the NY kennels this week and with no room at the inn, I may have to bring him to the Cape with us. The baby's first beach vacation will also be the dog's first beach vacation. There better be frankincense and myrrh when I arrive.