A sign

A sign

Wednesday, November 20, 2013

A walk with my dog





My dog's name is Chicken. This is her:



She is really cute and makes me feel okay about being so weird. One thing that you should know about me is that I talk a lot. Even when no one is there. I just talk to my clothes or my computer or (now) my dog.  She is not an inanimate object, so I feel like it is perfectly normal for me to talk, sing, serenade, or dance to her. I do this all the time.

 My husband knows that I do this, but he isn't fully aware of how extreme it has become (he was surprised the other day when he walked in on me dancing to her and singing "Chicken what you think about it" over and over.  When he asked me in a confused tone what I was doing, I said (obviously*) "I'm asking her what she thinks about it.")  

Due to his constant shock over realizing how weird I really am, I don't tell him about my day to day embarrassments over my talks with Chicken. 

This week I was walking her around my neighborhood. It is a cute little suberb-y area.  There tends to be people out in their yard or walking their own dogs (whom I'm sure they talk to as well), I just usually notice them.  Not today. I was walking with Chicken through a huge leaf pile on the side walk.  I was kicking the leaves at her and she was fighting off their attacks. I thought that this was hilarious and proclaimed 

" YOU DID IT! YOU MURDERED THEM! YOU ARE THE LEAF SLAYER!!!!!!!!!!

I did not see the man washing his car in the next driveway (isn't washing your car a summer thing?). I laughed, he looked away, clearly afraid of my fierce, leaf killing dog.

I didn't tell Miles (my husband) about this. Until yesterday.

Yesterday I went on a walk with both Miles and Chicken.  This is when I feel most at ease.  These two know me, they have accepted me, I'm going full on crazy. So instead of saying "good girl" after Chicken sat at the crosswalk- like a normal person, I decide to sing.  I sang:

"Good work Chicken, How'd you get get to be the BEST BEST BEST?"

I sang it pretty loud, like a yell, maybe. Miles laughed and quietly told me that the jogger across the street enjoyed my song.  I looked up and saw a man running faster now, away from the drunk girl (I wasn't drunk).

A few minutes later, after I had forgotten about said embarrassment.  Chicken had to poop (this was the whole point of our walk). She was circling around a spot, and I sang, again.

"POOP, POOP, POOP.PA.POOP,POOP!"

Miles laughed even harder, and told me that I was crazy.  It was then that I told him about the "LEAF SLAYER" incident. He was impressed with how far my crazy had come.  

In short: It's all Chicken's fault that I am crazy. 


*Parenthesis in parenthesis are cool