*DISCLAIMER: This post contains a curse word. Though it was unintentional on the part of my son, I was warned when I named this dog that this might happen but I didn’t realize how FUNNY it would sound when I heard it! END OF DISCLAIMER*
Given the number of animals we own now and have owned since Mr. B was just a little tyke, is no surprise that the kid is wild about animals. He absolutely adores our two kitties, does a great job of sharing his meals with the bird, and loves to play fetch with our dog, Shatzie (Cherrie, our old dog, is happy to have him slip a snippet or two from his plate during dinner, then she retires to her bed for the next 22 hours).
Now, there is no denying Shatzie (our Jack Russell Terrier mix) is a happy dog. She is always wagging that little tail of hers, bouncin’ around and trying to figure out which one of us she can sucker into throwing a toy for her. Her name actually means “happy” or “beloved one” in German. But happiness in NOTHING compared to the euphoric state she’s in when she has a ball in her mouth. To Shatzie, the ball is LIFE. It’s her own “precious” so to speak. She has about 8 mini tennis balls, but 6 of them always wind up under the sofas or entertainment center by the end of the day, so she will end up guarding those last two balls with all of her little mighty dog strength. Oh, sure, she’ll let you take one and throw it for her as long as she can see at least one more ball that hasn’t rolled under the furniture, but if you try to take the last ball outa her mouth and throw it, she gets all whiny and shaky and won’t sit for anything (we make her sit before we throw it) because she is trembling with anticipation and is focused, and I mean focused on getting to that ball before it rolls under the sofa or she’ll have to make do with the turtle squeaky toy for the rest of the evening (which doesn’t bounce off the walls by the way).
This is where Mr. B comes in. We’ve had dinner and I’m cleaning up the kitchen before bath, teeth, jammies, story, and bed, so I give him 10 minutes to play before we start. He sees that Shatzie has the ball in her mouth. I can see by the way she is acting that it’s the last ball of the evening (before bed EVERY night, I have to get the broom out and fish all the balls out from under the sofas).
Mr. B gets the ball and says, “Shatzie, shit.”
I nearly drop the bowl I am adding to the dishwasher.
He pauses for a moment, realizes that he’s made a little mistake, then tries, “Satsie, shit!”
I slowly turn my body around to face my son. What on earth can I say to him? It doesn’t matter what I SHOULD say, since I have been rendered speechless for the moment (and that’s saying a lot).
Shatzie most assuredly did not shit, nor did she sit. She stood, staring intently at the last ball poised in the hand of my four-year-old son, and could hardly keep from jumping up and snatching it out of his grubby little fist.
Mr. B frowns a little and repeats very loudly, “Shatzie, SHIT!”
I am (unsuccessfully) trying to keep a very straight face and say calmly, “Honey, I can tell that you are tired and so is Shatzie, and maybe that’s why she won’t, um, sit for you right now. I think it’s time to get ready for bed. You can play with her in the morning.”
He says ok and throws the ball for a very eager dog and runs to get in the bath. Though we’ve had our share of mishaps with the animals, I never thought that there would be THIS kind of problem with the dog!