Dogs are gross. Dogs are grosser than cats, parrots, and rabbits.

Dogs Are Gross

Dogs Are Gross

“Smells like burnt hair.”

“No. It smells like cow shit in a barn.”

“What? Cow patties smell like grass. A clean stall doesn’t smell bad.”

“You can’t judge my smelling ability! That’s just wrong.”

“I’m not judging. I’m sayin’ burnt hair or burnt fingernails. Not that I’ve smelled that last one.”

“Whatever. That cow hoof smells like cow shit. And Dante is gross.”

I adjusted the slobber-soaked towel covering my throw blanket that covered me while I read Bukowski. Which takes focus. Which I lost because Dante is chewing a cow hoof and the entire room smells like burnt hair. Or cow shit. Whatever. The shower sized towel is running out of absorbency, and this dog of mine isn’t running out of spit. Dogs are gross.

Dogs are grosser than cats. Set aside the hellish tumble weed hair balls you’ll step on early in the morning. That’s amateur hour compared to a dog licking his bunghole, sounding like an overflowing turbo engine washing machine. Granted cat farts melt plastic. But those are rare, and that’s our fault for feeding a fresh sardine. Dogs fart for something to do. Then they argue with their butt on the sofa, snorfling throw pillows and blankets to the floor, chasing an invisible gerbil that crawled up that butt of theirs.

Dogs are grosser than parrots. A parrot will regurgitate a meal on your shoulder, on purpose. Their love language. This is sublime compared to a dog vomiting unknown objects resembling leftovers of a piranha feeding frenzy. On your favorite rug. After you’ve followed a gagging, hacking dog looking for the best place to barf, while you grab at a collar trying to steer the impending doom dump. Spoiler alert, there’s no steering a 70-pound dog looking for a place to retch baby aliens.

Dogs are grosser than rabbits. Oh, you’re surprised I brought up nature’s fluffy friend from field and fauna. You don’t have a rabbit living with you, do you? Rabbits, especially older rabbits, have stomach issues. When they do, they get sticky bottom. It’s a nice way to say all their poop goes sticky soft serve and builds up into a pancake from Hades. That pancake, being on their butt, picks up hay, pellets, chewed toys, and shed fur. Fun fact, you can’t bath a bunny. You can only spot clean. This is hazmat level shit, and you will never forget your first sticky bottom abatement. It’s the stuff of nightmares. Your rabbit won’t be happy, either. Sticky bottom is child’s play compared to a dog’s anal gland.

Evolution and nature were at a bar and decided dogs should have a gland that’s filled with milky goo smelling of dead oysters from the boiling center of Mars. Nature laughed so hard she fell off the barstool. Evolution said, “Wait. Hold my beer.” Then made 80% of all dogs have anal gland issues that include scooting their butt over long travels on your carpet. Maytaging their butt. And leaking dribbles of dank when stressed out because you went outside to turn off the garden hose. Evolution laughed so hard he choked on a mouthful of bar nuts.

The American Kennel Club offers a DIY how to “express your dog’s anal gland at home”. Practically turning your dog into a party favor. Dr. James on glandex.com offers an enlightening fact that there are two anal gland methods available. External and internal. It’s always good to have options for dank glands. I recommend none of these. Dogs are gross.

“Stop. Do not swallow that!” Me, wrestling 70 pounds of Catahoula hound on the sidewalk along 83rd Avenue North.

“Don’t ...” Me, with four fingers inside said hound’s mouth, grabbing at a slippery hard thing that feels like a bone but could also be anything.

“Give.”

“Me.”

THAT.” Me following a hound down to the ground as he lays out and, on his back, fighting for his right to swallow anything he finds on the walk. In public. Another dog walker, across the street walking their adorable freshly groomed little dog, who’s too picky to eat just anything, calls over to me. “Is your dog, okay?”

Is your dog okay? Nice. I’m the one in a full sweat, looking like the loser of a seven round MMA fight. Is your dog okay ...FFS.

Angus swallows hard. He’s decided if my fingers get caught up in all this, so be it. I roll off him and answer from across the street. “Yes, this dog is okay. Thanks.” I wave a wet, slimy hand that made it out in one piece.

The clock starts when the front door closes. Angus is going to ralf that piranha feeding frenzy leftover. And there’s nothing I can do about it. Dogs are gross.

Kathy LaFollett is a participant in the Amazon Services LLC Associates Program, an affiliate advertising program designed to provide a means for sites to earn advertising fees by advertising and linking to Amazon.com.

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