Dog

We MacFarlands are the dubiously proud owners of one mutt, a terrier-shaped thing of indistinct origin which, when prodded, we will cheerfully inform you is a Georgia Farthound. The Georgia Farthound is a fine specimen; he's like a smooth-coated fox terrier, but larger than the Dog Law will allow, with markings more like a Parson Russell and ears like a Rat. Rat terrier, that is. At any rate, he's muscular and well-knit, with a beautiful chest and head-set on him. He's affectionate, occasionally obedient; a lovely animal...and mind you stay upwind of him.

The Georgia Farthound, however, is the bane of my existence as a housekeeper. He sheds, short, wiry bristles that impale themselves into your clothing and your upholstery and your duvet-covers. He knocks bits of food literally all over my kitchen floor - quite a space - when he eats, and the lazy beast doesn't even have the decency to snuffle up his own orts when he's done. His all-time favorite pastime is rolling in the mud and madly racing, as if in a game of chase, past the towel that awaits him on his reentry to the house, streaking carpets and tile and everything in sight with the reddish-brown muck he's covered in. No, I take that back. His all-time favorite pastime is stinking up the place with his unseelie nether emissions. His second favorite pastime is rolling in the mud, &ctra.

Recently, the Georgia Farthound has gotten a wild hair. He's succumbed to the call of the open road; we have a generously-sized fenced-in backyard that the dog has the full run of - but nooo, it wasn't good enough for him. So, like something out of a WWII movie, he has tunneled his way to freedom...and I'm damned if I can find the hole. Mister MacFarland and I have been all over that backyard, and we can't find so much as a loose fence-board. No low places where he might squeeze under. No little tunnels that we can see...yet every time the little whelp is let out, foosh!. He's gone. He shows up at the front door some time later. No big deal - until he chases a car and actually catches one.

Today, the Georgia Farthound went missing for too long a time. He'd been out for hours, so when Mister MacFarland got home from work, I spent half an hour riding around the neighborhood in my car, calling and whistling to that dog out the window and looking for terrier-shaped grease-spots on the road. I found him deep in a neighboring subdivision, almost a mile away, happy as a clam and wagging his fucking tail at me. Needless to say, I'll be leash-walking him for a few days, until we can get this business straightened out via a two-step process of close observation and repair. If I didn't know better I'd swear the little shit had learned to climb trees.

The Georgia Farthound is on the floor next to me, looking up at me with adoring eyes on one end, and trying to poison me with methane gas from the other. That damned dog is such a heap of trouble. If I didn't love the little fucker so much, I'd suggest Mister MacFarland take him out on the old "one-way huntin' trip".

I've gone soft. What can I say? He farted his way into my heart.