15. Ollie
Ollie
I’m not saying that I’m the best-behaved dog in the house, although objective evidence would support that claim.
I’m just saying that of the two dogs that live here, only one has been yipping for the past hour.
Or two hours. Or maybe a few minutes. Who knows, honestly.
But while I’m sitting here quietly, waiting to be let out of my crate to go outside and then have breakfast, Spam is over there losing his ever-loving mind.
Seriously, man. Chill.
Maybe he needs to eat more frequently because of his size. I’ll buy that.
But the volume? Unnecessary.
“The fuck?”
Footsteps thud down the stairs, accompanied by a string of words that Nate only says when Spam is pissing him off.
When a pair of slippers appears in front of my crate, attached to a pair of plaid pajama pants, I understand the situation.
Allie is in charge.
I’m using the term loosely here, of course. Allie has been living here for a while, and she makes Rory happy. But she doesn’t seem to be the biggest fan of Spam.
Maybe she hates all dogs. Who knows.
She reaches down and opens the latch of my crate, then Spam’s.
Spam takes off like a bat out of hell, straight to the front door.
“Fuckkk,” Allie says again, following him slowly as she wrestles her long blonde hair into a messy bun.
I meander behind her, showing my support.
I get it, Allie.
Spam is a pain in the ass, but he grows on you.
When we reach the front door, I sit, waiting patiently.
Spam hops in place, barking.
“It’s fucking five a.m.,” Allie says. “Don’t you ever sleep?”
Surprisingly, he does, but not as much as you’d think he would need to for the level of energy he displays most of the time.
She clips a leash to his collar and pulls the door open. “Let’s go, sausage. Do your business. Do you know how to make coffee?”
Allie holds the door for me, and I trot along after them and relieve myself in my favorite bush.
Spam sniffs multiple spots before finally emptying his bladder.
Allie looks at both of us suspiciously. “Poop? Do you need to poop?”
I head for the door and take a seat, indicating that I do not need to relieve myself further.
A gentleman does not poop in front of a lady, at least until after breakfast.
Spam, unaware of this etiquette, barks, then pees on another bush.
“For fuck’s sake. How much pee can you possibly make?” Allie asks as he sniffs along the ground. “Look at Ollie. He did his business, and now he’s ready to go back inside. Where the coffee is. Be like Ollie.”
Spam ignores her, sniffing everything in his path until she sighs loudly and tugs on the leash to direct him toward me.
When she lets us back into the house, I politely make my way to the food bowl and wait, letting her know the routine.
Spam gets the zoomies.
I mean, I get it. The zoomies are fun.
But as Allie said, it’s fucking five a.m.
When Allie finally fills my food bowl, a mug of coffee in hand, I rub her hand gratefully.
“You’re the best, Ollie,” she says, rubbing my head. “Your brother is a pain in the ass.”
Not my brother. And I don’t disagree, but like I said, the little dude grows on you.
And if he’s back, it means Rory’s back, which means Nate’s happy.
And that’s all I need.
As long as he doesn’t mess things up this time.