I Don’t Wanna Take Mom For A Walk

I’m tired of her tugging the leash and jumping on men.

My name is Piper La Grange, I’m a female Border Terrier, and my human Mom has behavior problems. I don’t know what to do. Especially when I take her for walks down the street. She sniffs. She licks. She paws. I’m afraid Mom’s gonna do those things to a man who doesn’t like it.

I get it. It’s my job to give Mom a safe and loving forever-home. I don’t mind that she’s a big commitment. I mind that she’s a royal pain. She hogs my queen-size bed. Lounges all day on my sofa. Monopolizes my TV. One moment, I’m watching a Hallmark rom-com with my favorite actress, Gidget the Border Terrier. The next, Mom’s changing the channel to some World Wrestling sausage fest.

Don’t get me wrong: Mom has her moments. She’s playful. She’s cuddly. She looks adorable when she’s snoring in a rocker on the front porch, a bottle of Pabst in one hand, and a tube of Pringles® in the other.

Problem is, Mom’s looking old. I don’t get it. We’re both ten. Me, in actual years. Mom, in dog years (which is seventy in people years). That’s where the similarities end. For instance, my tits are still boobalicious — which is a challenge when you’ve got six of ’em. Mom’s knockers have been pulled down by gravity. Their next stop is her navel.

There’s the matter of grooming. I keep my fur neat and tidy. Mom’s is lookin’ mangy. Especially the muff in her nether region. I looked up at it yesterday as she got out of the shower. Yikes! Her kitty needs some girlscaping. Otherwise, it’s gonna become a butt-mullet.

That said, I can cope with Mom’s bad habits at home. But when I take her for a walk, she makes me wanna chase my tail.

For one thing, walks with Mom take forever. Not because she’s a trudger. She can be, of course, when her hip acts up and she uses a walker. She’ll tie the leash to it, grip the handles, then slowly shuffle along. No problem. I’ll yank the walker out of her hand, then pull it down the sidewalk at a speed which keeps it just out of her reach. She looks sad, stumbling along in an effort to catch it. But that’s ok. She’s limping at a speed that’s a brisk walk for a little dog like me.

The problem is that Mom stops to sniff things. By which I mean men. Mom’s looking for stinky treats. To me, a stinky treat is a Pup-Peroni® or a liver snap. To Mom, a stinky treat is a sawdust-coated carpenter building a house down the street. A lusty landscaper digging bushes into a neighbor’s yard. A sweaty seal coater putting a top layer on an asphalt driveway. A brawny UPS man wrestling heavy packages in his truck. Mom says its fun to lather up stinky men in the shower. That said, I’ve seen her get men all lathered up in the kitchen. The living room. The garage. The tool shed. One time, she couldn’t wait to get a burly bricklayer home, and got him lathered up in the porta-potty at his job site. So no, Mom doesn’t need a shower. She doesn’t even need water. Mom could get a man lathered up in a dry, sandy desert.

Another problem is how Mom says “Howdy-do” to men we meet on the street. Sometimes she jumps on them, paws them, licks them. Other times, she uses her cleavage to introduce herself.

Mom says cleavage is daring, provocative, and empowering. It makes a bold statement. The thing is, Mom lets her ass do the talking. Granted, the décolletage in Mom’s balcony is deep as the Grand Canyon. Nonetheless, she prefers to show the Crack of Doom in her basement. She wears lowriders set three inches below her navel. And push-up granny panties. Mom will sashay up to a man, “accidentally” drop my leash, do an about-face, and bend over to pick it up. She always fumbles with it for at least seconds. That gives the guy a sight he won’t unsee for a week.

Make no mistake: men like the view. Mom’s not a saggy-assed old broad. Her badunkadonk is bootilicous. She’s got the trophies to show for it. Mom won her first ass-crack contest in 1975, when she served at Keflavik Naval Station in Iceland. She beat a bosun who could tuck his tools ‘tween his cheeks. And Marine who could crack a walnut with his hot, crusty buns.

Mom’s competed in countless fanny chasm matches in Leelanau bars. She’s beaten men who bend over for a living. Plumbers. Flooring installers. Chippendale dancers. Customer service representatives. Favorable reviews of her gluteal Great Divide have been scrawled on walls of men’s room stalls in every pub on the peninsula. Just last year, Mom received the Golden Globes award from the Leelanau Saloon Association.

But back to why I don’t want to take Mom out for a walk.

Mom has more unsettling way to say “Going my way?” to hunky guys we meet. Recall: she’s trying to entice a man to come home with her. Gotten nowhere with friendly persuasion. Nor by bending over and showing off her vertical smile. Time to bring out the big guns. As she chats amiably with the man, Mom eases her hand up the front of her wide-cut button-down blouse, and unfastens the top three buttons. She casually slides her hand underneath towards her bra strap. Next thing you know, out pops a bosom!

Mom’s chest isn’t dotted by a couple triple-A cups. She’s got what the boys call “big-uns.” If they were pushed over a cliff, they’d start an avalanche. That’s why Mom wears a heavy-duty bra called an Over The Shoulder Boulder Holder®.

Mom makes busting out a bosom look easy. Just a twist of the wrist and a flick of the fingers. Mom always breaks out her left boob. Her right one is ok. Just not quite as good. And Mom believes a woman should always put her best bosom forward.

The moment it happens, Mom blushes and flusters. She hustles her boob back into its holster. But she only seems to hurry. In fact, she takes her sweet time doing it, to give the man a sweet long time to look at it. If this works, his face shows shock and awe. But then he follows her home like a stray puppy.

I guess I should count my blessings. Mom could get down then and there, press her shoulders to the ground, then raise her heinie in the “play” position. Instead, she always waits ’til she gets the guy home before rolling over and showing her belly.

I’ve tried to control Mom on walks. Indeed, I’ve told her “Stay, dammit!” so many times, she’s starting to think “Dammit” is her name.

I hate to give up on Mom and put her in a shelter. She’s not adoptable. She’s old. Has health issues. Doesn’t take commands. Doesn’t respect boundaries. She shouldn’t be around children. And for God’s sake, not around single men. If there was another old lady in the house, the two of them would fight. Or form a pack, and make everyone else play by their rules.

I’ll keep trying to train Mom. I’ll go back to the basics. Like getting her to pick up her toys. When I’m done playing with mine, I stash them in a corner of the living room. When she’s done with hers, she’s supposed to put them in a wicker basket in the bedroom. Instead, she leaves her vibrators all over the house.