Cynophobia

I'm staying with my older sister for the next few weeks; the reason being that she wants me to keep her dogs company while she works from 9 to 7 and because she wants to give dad a break from having to clean up dog hair.

I don't particularly care for dogs. I think they're repulsive creatures, all slobber and fangs and fur and feces. No, I should amend that statement. I don't mind dogs when they're not mine and they're not close to me.

My ideal dog, really, is Jessie; Jessie is my oldest sister's Shih Tzu and he acts nothing like a dog. He's quiet, he doesn't run around much, he doesn't move in the car or stick his head out the window, his mouth isn't big enough to make much drool, he doesn't try to come near me, and he leaves me alone when I'm eating.

All these admirable qualities are completely lacking in my older sister's three dogs. Between the three of them is a combination of everything I hate about dogs: Forrest always thinks I'm going to feed him; Daisy is hyperactive and improperly socialized; and Paddington is a monstrous Newfie, only two years old, barely disciplined and strong.

But then, I suppose I'll be fine. Even if it took me years to finally muster up the courage and strength to push down my gag reflex, I did finally manage to pick up one of Paddington's monster turds. If nothing else, it's fun to watch Forrest think I'm going to feed him.