Our story begins about 9 months ago . . . the picture to the left is from one month ago, but i would rather not (re)post the hamster-esque pictures of Aidan, as the recent ones are even more awesome and don't embarrass him as much . . .

Yes, that's my dog in the photo to the left with the Super Saiyan hair . . . seriously, Akira Toriyama couldn't conjure up wackier hair . . .

So we fast-forward to the present, which i guess in theory we were already at due to the discussion of a fairly recent picture, but still . . .

Ok, so the story began roughly 9 months ago, and in simulated hyperspeed progressed to the present . . . the first few months had me sleeping no more than 3 hours at a time, going to bed at midnight, getting up a 3 for a poop break, changing the towel in the crate because he couldn't hold it 3 fucking hours, taking another 3 hour nap, AGAIN changing the towel because he couldn't hold it 3 fucking hours, going to work way too early, coming home for lunch, changing the towel, going back to work, coming home, changing the towel, cooking dinner, changing the towel, eating dinner, changing the towel . . . you get the point. Ok, so the pooping once an hour may have subsided after about a month . . . so eventually i was just taking him out and cleaning up sporadic explosions on the (thankfully wood) floors. Holy fucking shit, I really never would have guessed a creature could poop so much, and with so little control. Nor did I think I'd be washing a load of towels a day . . .

So I finally was able to put my rugs back down in November, and (knock on wood) no accidents on them . . . it seems he only has a problem when he's at anyone ELSE's place . . . great. So I'm the asshole with the dog that poops on the floor.

He finally stays at home during the day in the kitchen instead of in his tiny crate, and he sleeps on the bed at night . . .

What I cannot understand is how at 2-3 months old he learned that when I say "let's go home" he should run into his crate . . . first "command" he learned. Then "sit," "stay," "go," and *kind of* "come." And he learned ALL of those before he learned what I strongly consider the most important command of all: "DON'T POOP IN THE FRAKIN' HOUSE!!!"

It did provide me with some amusement, b/c when he'd do it and I didn't see it happen, generally right about the time the smell made it to my olfactory glands, he'd be sitting in front of me with his "uh oh, I fucked up" look . . . see exhibit b (right).

He loves playing with dogs 5 times his size . . . I've seen him literally flung from the floor onto couches because he holds on to the tug-of-war rope a little too doggedly (no pun intended . . .). I've also had him run over and look up at me soaked to the skin in Boxer drool . . . and happy as can be. He was not as happy in the ensuing bath . . .

He's afraid of plastic bags and cats, but doesn't seem to have an overwhelmingly debilitating fear of the vaccuum cleaner . . . go figure.

And on Friday, January 23rd, he's getting his balls chopped off. Somehow, despite all the pooping on the floor (some of which I've stepped in . . . some of which i've stepped in barefoot) . . . despite the chewing of shoelaces and nice belts and headphone wires . . . despite the exploding in his crate and getting it ALL OVER HIM, forcing many 4am baths and many semi-sleepless nights . . . I really felt bad scheduling this appointment. I guess I'm just a guy, and the idea of losing what I'm going to adamantly claim as a very important and useful part of my anatomy would be devastating.

I just hope the poor bastard doesn't hate me forever. I wonder if "we're going to Disney World" works on dogs . . . or if he'll go all Marley & Me and try to dive out the window . . .

Poor guy . . . right now he has no idea that he'll never be the same again. He thinks his biggest problem in the entire world is that I'm taking a few too many minutes to finish writing instead of taking him outside . . .