Behold

Sir Barnum-Mom's Big Boy-Earp.

I wish I was kidding that she actually had that put on his AKC papers, but alas I am not. For simplicity's sake we call him Barney because anyone who spends more than fourteen seconds with him will realize he is not a Barnum. He is a Barney through and through.

I could list all of Barney's great qualities. How big his eyes are and how sweet he can be when you have something he wants. How he's built like a really gangly, black giraffe and how he's slower than a box of rocks underwater but I won't. I think his greatest quality is his skiddishness. The poor sweetheart is a lamb in wolf's clothing. Neighbors run from him in frantic yelps and cries of "Get that wild animal!" whenever they walk by because his greatest offense thus far has been sniffing so hard in your ass crack that you're pretty sure you're being molested, but you kind of also like it. He's just too stupid to hurt anyone.

There was the instance where my mother called me to say that the dogs were standing with her in the kitchen while she was making dinner one evening and when she pulled one gallon bag from the Ziploc container on a high shelf, two came out accidentally. The second floated down, much like a napkin in the breeze, but Barney was standing directly underneath and when he caught sight of it, scrambled out of the kitchen so fast and with such fear that we were sure he was shouting internally "HURRY THEY'RE BOMBING! NAZIS, WITCHES, THE HUMANE SOCIETY, GET THE KIBBLE! SAVE YOURSELVES, SAVE YOURSEEEEEEEELLLLLVVVVVVVEEEEEEEESSSS" and my mother was all "What the F are we going to do with Barney?"

The real reason I'm writing about him today is two fold. One has to do with the video we took of him last night in his prime. He loves nothing more than to stand up on two legs and lean on someone so that he can smell them furiously in their eyeball and then proceed to lick every square inch of skin that might have a trace of facial oil or blush on it because it tastes oh so good. The second is because as sweet as he can be, I almost killed him in a fit of rage this morning.

I've been home with my family the past few days which means that during the day the dogs, who are normally kenneled, get free range and are running around wildly while I play my Carrie Underwood cd and it's just all madness. Therefore, my mother bought them rawhide, a rare treat, so that they would keep calm and collected while I unloaded the dishwasher and ran around cleaning in my underwear (You're WELCOME for that visual, you naughty thing). So I hand them rawhide this morning, skip merrily on my way and don't look back until the cd needs changing.
At which point I notice the monstrous pile of dog puke laying on the rug by the back door and Barney is all weepy eyed like, 'Ash I don't know how this happened, it went from so good to SO BAD" and I was like "Are you f'ing kidding me Barney, how do I even clean this up?" and in a fit of frantic running around and wetness I pick UP the rug with said puke and all I can think is "This is DIRTY must get CLEAN" so I take it downstairs, dripping ALL THE WAY, to the laundry room and promptly dump it in the washtub where the laundry is done.

It was at this point, immediately after dumpage, that I realized our downstairs washtub doesn't have a garbage disposal or giant gaping hole for said regurgitated kibble and bits and that I have to scoop it all BACK OUT WITH MY HANDS into the nearby garbage. Just to go back upstairs and have to Shamwow the entire floor where it dripped from the back door and now, I've realized, that I truly love Barney but holy crap am I grateful for every day that I don't own a small child.
Enjoy this video of him in true Barney form.