Monica Bielanko
A chronicle since 2005 of my marriage & move to Brooklyn in my twenties; becoming a mother in my thirties; moving to Pennsylvania and learning to amicably coparent after divorce in my forties while living 3 doors down from my ex-husband in a small country town.
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Wednesday
Aug122009

Crazy Train

Have I told you much about Milo lately? My adorable, young man of a dog? I call him Piglet sometimes because he's sweet like Pooh's Piglet. He also eats like a Piglet. Max eats like a professor, thoughtfully chewing each bite, pausing to reflect on the meaning of life and then wander around sometimes to see the sights of the house. A dead fly here on the kitchen floor, that skeleton of a leaf Serge dragged in on the bottom of his boot that fossilized into the wax Monica painstakingly applied to the floor when SHE WAS MOPPING LAST WEEKEND WHILE SERGE WAS FISHING, FISHING, FISHING ALL THE GODDAMN DAY.

But where was I?

Oh yes. Milo. The Professor prodigiously chews his meals while Milo, who has already inhaled his serving, eyeballs him from three feet away. As Max diminishes his dog food supply Milo's eyes roll from bowl to Max and back again. You gonna finish that, huh buddy? You gonna finish that? What about that? Hey buddy, you done yet? You done yet? You done yet? You gonna eat that? What about that dust you left there in the bottom of the bowl, you gonna eat that? Buddy?

Milo is nearly epileptic with desire.

The Professor wanders off, still chewing, to inspect that dust mote on the floor there and oh, hey, what'dya know, this cupboard smells funny and look! There's a bird outside the window. Hmmm... Hummingbird. Max ruminates on global warming and the state of American health care as Milo's eyes nearly pop out of his skull. MAX LEFT HIS DOG FOOD UNATTENDED! THE FOOD! IT'S THERE! THE FOOD! He goggles at me in bewilderment. ARE YOU SEEING THIS SHIT?! HE LEFT HIS FOOD! FOOD! FOOD! THERE! BY ITSELF! He can't quite process how Max could just wander away. But he wouldn't dare touch Max's business. Max is Big Man On Campus. Milo is still a freshman undergoing all sorts of hazing that involves drinking from the toilet, penis licking and wrestling with lots of doggie-style maneuverings. You know, just like college frat boys do it.

Milo parks himself at our big, front window, growling at leaves in the wind, toddlers on tricycles, the mailman. While Max would likely invite burglars in for coffee, doughnuts and conversation, Milo suspects neighborhood mothers pushing babies in strollers of being terrorists with containers of pipe bombs and that man watering his lawn next door? He's actually about to wage chemical warfare on our home. Milo isn't taking this dog business lightly, you know. It's his shift at the window and sometimes he's got to cover for that lazy good-for-nothing Max who's all the time slacking and sleeping on the job there under the kitchen table.

Milo is a wonderful, slobbery maniac of a dog who lives up to his breed and would retrieve a frisbee until his little heart exploded right out of his black, rumply chest. Most of the time Max can't be bothered to play fetch choosing to trot around haughtily, fetching is SO beneath him, you know? So Max trots while Milo works himself into a soapy lather, flipping and twisting in his effort to catch the bright orange disk. He lays it at your feet and God forbid you hesitate while you scratch your nose or even fart, he will BARK BARK BARK until you get your shit together and toss the disk. Dammit! You fool! In the time you ripped that fart that's been roiling inside he could've been there and back five times! You're burning daylight, asshole! THROW THE FRISBEE! Again and again and again until he's collapsing yet still trying to lug the frisbee back like a soldier under fire, dragging his wounded comrade to safety.

After each session he exiles himself to our bathroom to lie between the sink and the toilet, I can only assume because of the cool tiles on the floor there. This positioning also affords him easy and instant access to the ice cold toilet water, gallons of which he gulps on an hourly basis. Immediately thereafter he generally comes looking for the nearest human he can bestow with toiletwater kisses. Big, sloppy, toiletwater kisses.

He has a theme song, our Milo does. You can listen to it here.

Next week we're shaving O-Z-Z-Y into each paw. You know, just to fuck with the Pit Bulls at the dog park.