Life with a peckerhead dog

Mondays.  I freaking HATE Mondays.  There is just no real redeeming value to Mondays as far as I am concerned. Today ended with an episode that pretty much justifies my disdain for the first workday of the week.

Someday I will sit back with a beer in my hand and recount this story to friends.  Maybe it will be around a camp fire after a good day on the water.  Or...more will be from the friendly confines of a padded room (and no beer...).

The initial text was this:

At first, I thought it was funny.

My thought process was: "Stupid ass dog.  I hope he got stuck. I don't.  The barb wasn't pinched down and I don't need the extra vet bill"  I called my wife to verify that he wasn't hurt. He wasn't. extra vet bill today.

That was on the way home from a "classic" Monday at work.  As I drove, I flipped through the flash cards that make up my memory and realized that I had purposefully left those streamers with hooks secured in foam on my fly tying desk.  That means the dog had to exert some effort into getting one stuck in his paw.

Suddenly, some jackwagon pulled out in front of me, and I was off into a fresh set of dark thoughts.

After dinner and helping my daughter with homework, my wife casually mentioned Manny's taste for feathers and I scurried downstairs to check the Lab.  What I found is apparently what happens when a pain-in-the-ass Kickmeanklebiter is left unsupervised.

Now, I know that saying he is retarded is not politically correct these days, so save yourself the trouble of a lecture on use of that word.  But the truth is: I am currently having a hard time finding a more socially acceptable way to express the fact that this dog is on the very low end of the canine intelligence curve.

Dog shaming.  MacLoosh style.
The little fucker managed to mangle each and every one of the Fish Sculls streamers that I spent the last couple of nights working on.  In some, the zonker strip is gone all together.  In others the marabou is beyond repair.  And yet, in others, the hackle is absolutely destroyed.  He also got into a pack of olive colored marabou, and mangled an entire (brand new) package of natural colored zonker strips.

My current hope is that tomorrow when he goes out for his morning duece, that somewhere along the way a quill has managed to stay intact and finds its way through his lower intestinal system by way of poking the sidewalls and causing involuntary muscle spasms along the way.

No one would be happier than me to see his sorry ass twisting and twitching in wretched discomfort. When he eventually pinches it off and turns around to sniff the the fruits of his labor, I hope he gets one final poke in the nose.

A guy's gotta dream right?!

In the mean time, since Fish Sculls aren't cheap, and because I think I can still fish them...I will.  If I get skunked, then I guess I will just have to come home and beat the dog as one final act of retaliation.

Now, excuse me while I go lace his kibble with chili powder.

Til later,


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