Panty Freak

I hesitated to post this blog for fear of offending some of my more delicate readers.

Then I figured, what the hell. I've already talked about it to some of you and if I had to experience this, then you should have to experience it too.

Also I know a couple of my friends hate the word "panty" and "panties" and would prefer to say "underwear" or "roos." To you I say: sorry. This post is about panties.

So the thing is, my dog is a Panty Freak. Yes, I refer to Cooper, not Little Mac. (Although, to be completely fair, one time when I was in my old apartment and D left Mac with me for the week I came home from class one day to find her wearing a pair of my underwear around her neck. Seriously. I have no idea how it happened. My best guess is that she was rutting around on the floor on them and managed to slip them over her head and then couldn't -- or didn't want -- to get them off.)

I no longer leave panties on the floor because (1) my husband is a Neat Freak and clutter stresses him out (crumbs on the counter and dirt on the carpet not a problem for him though -- we have very different perspectives on what "clean" means) and (2) my dog is a Panty Freak.

Cooper is not alone in his penchant for eating panties. I understand that many dogs relish a good panty. His cousin Sonoma is quite the panty-lover himself. Sonoma's mom, Lana, reports that Sonoma has a preference for the high-dollar panty (Hanky Pankies in particular) and thongs. Cooper is not so discriminating, although when I think back to the 3 pairs of panties that he has eaten, it would seem that he has a thing for horizontal stripes.

So since Cooper's puppy days, I have learned to be very careful about where I'm throwin' my panties and I am careful to make sure they end up in the laundry hamper and not on the bathroom floor.

Last week, I was doing some laundry and had separated clothes from the hamper into laundry baskets. A pair of my underwear was on top of one basket -- cute new cotton undies that my mom gave me for Christmas. Horizontally striped cotton undies. I noticed Cooper was mighty interested in that laundry basket and particularly in the cute little horizontally striped number on top. I gave him a couple of Verbal Warnings in a Very Stern Voice, "No, Cooper! That is not for babies! Do not eat your mama's underwear! Get your snout out of that laundry basket!" But I got distracted making and eating dinner and the next thing I know:

crotchless panties on the dining room floor.

Needless to say, when my MOTHER gave me these panties at Christmas, they most CERTAINLY were NOT crotchless. So I threw away what remained of the underwear and scolded Cooper and yelled at D because somehow it must be HIS fault that our dog is a DISGUSTNG PERV WHO EATS HIS MOTHER'S UNDERWEAR.

Then we went to bed.

The next EVENING when D gets home from work, we are chatting -- the typical how was your day, mine was fine, students were crazy, my dissertation makes my brain hurt, etc. -- and he casually says, "So I think Cooper puked last night."

"Um, what do you mean you think? Where did he do it? You didn't clean it up?"

"Well, he was under the covers and I heard him like gagging. But it was early this morning so I had to get up and get to work."

*pause for reflection*

"Are you telling me that you THINK our dog VOMITED in our bed UNDER THE COVERS and you GOT UP at 6am and WENT TO WORK and left me to SLEEP IN DOG VOMIT until my alarm went off at 7:25am??? Did I spend an hour and a half unconciously lolling around in DOG PUKE????"

D starts backpedaling to save his life, "Well, I'm not sure he puked. I mean, he could have been coughing."

I run to the bedroom, fling the comforter up off the blanket at the foot of the bed and find this:


Yes, Reader, that is dog vomit and the crotch of my panties in two pieces.

Yes, Reader, my husband left me sleeping with that in bed with me.

I know it could be worse: at least the panties didn't get lodged in Cooper's intestine, forcing us to take our a second mortgage on our home in order to pay for emergency veterinary surgery. At least he didn't vomit on my face. At least they were VS panties and not Hanky Pankies. But SERIOUSLY. I didn't know whom to be more annoyed with -- Cooper for puking or D for being completely UNCONCERNED.

So, that is my life. My dog is a Panty Freak, my husband is a "Neat Freak" whose desire for cleanliness clearly does not extend to clean sheets and I sleep in dog vomit. Stay tuned for more zany fun!