If you missed my last post (where the readers’ comments were way funnier than the article), I just want to bring you up to speed that my daughter has been doing a full-court press to convince me that we should get a pet English bulldog.
I do not want a dog. The rest of my family does. I’ve explained the responsibilities of walking in dreadful weather conditions, poop scooping, feeding, vacuuming, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera to the answers of “Mom, we will take care of it all!” (To my husband’s defense, he has not offered because he knows the truth: it will be my bastard dog-child.)
For the past few weeks, I have found strategically placed notes, drawings and booklets cleverly pleading her case. I’ve worked in the world of marketing for more years than I care to admit and her campaign put most of my promotions to shame. This kid could have won a Clio — her pieces were packed with emotional appeal, well-researched facts and an adorable mascot that trumped the Pillsbury Dough Boy:
Thanks to this blog, I have learned that bulldogs need to have their anal glands squeezed. I am not sure of the reason why because I was concentrating on swallowing the vomit that rose up the back of my throat. I think it has something to do with infections. This was the one stinky fact that my little marketing maven failed to share.
I waited to share my new information when the time was just right: at a family party. On my classy side of the family, it’s not a successful gathering unless the topic of conversation somehow gets back to bodily functions. You are deemed funny if you can get milk/wine/beer to shoot out of another relative’s nose.
Two of my cousins started talking about English bulldogs in front of Eileen. One mentioned that she had also begged her mom for the same pet when she was Eileen’s age. That’s when I brought up the little nugget about how they need to have their butt holes squeezed. My daughter’s jaw dropped and everyone gagged. The poor kid was silent. There was no way she was going to volunteer for that dog-rearing job of handling a dog’s rear.
Finally, victory was mine!
After everyone left, I asked Eileen what she thought about the new information about taking care of a dog’s smelly bottom. She broke down into tears. “Well, now I know for sure that we will never get a dog. I am sorry that I brought this whole thing up.”
I felt horribly. What kind of evil mom will gloat in front of her heartbroken daughter? Especially after all of her creative efforts and hard work. I was not proud of myself. For a slight moment, I would have given in to another type of dog just to cheer her up.
Instead, the next day I bought her some new clothes from Target.
Old dog = Old tricks
Dear Google Ads, Please focus on the whole TARGET and CLOTHES and FAMILY part and ignore anything to do with anuses. Well, except if there is a HUGE SALE on JEANS and PANTS that make my ass look small.