I have been working on my business taxes this morning, finishing up the bank statement that dropped last night. I have stuff to sign and get to my CPA.
Unfortunately, this requires that I print some documents to sign, then scan them and email them to the CPA.
This is tantamount to trauma.
Stanley despises, hates, loathes, detests, and wants to kill the printer at all times. He has begun this cute little trick (sarcasm intended) of jumping on me in order to get a prime spot on my desk to bark, snarl, scare, inflict pain on, or destroy the printer.
This morning, however, he’s been having an issue with his anal glands. I have used the Anal Gland Wipes twice already, and there is an eau de anal gland scent wafting around my office. I’m getting ready to spray Febreeze.
He is going to the groomer on Friday, because it’s been about six weeks since his nails and his anal glands were done. I’m telling you this because it has a bearing on the rest of the story.
Picture one cute little hairy black dog. Picture this dog having a fit, clawing its way up my leg, over my lap, utilizing my arm, to stand on my legs with his long, pinching toes so he can reach the printer on my desk in order to disembowel it. I had to put my hands between his nails and my legs to try and prevent bleeding. Then his rear end smell got to me.
I am holding him like this for the entire time he’s screaming (and I do mean screaming – it’s a high pitched yelpy bark) at the printer while it’s printing a 20 PAGE DOCUMENT.
The above picture is a scene from a prior printer battle. After this one I was just trying to survive the gouges in my thighs.
You think to yourself, I’ll get a dog. A companion. Someone to lay at my feet and keep me company on walks. I honestly didn’t think about a terrier who was nutso about printers, took nibbles out of people’s ankles, and smelled like rotting fish periodically. To his credit, he does adore my son. And me.
I may drape a garland of air fresheners around his neck, however, and keep the printer in another room.