Oliver Sunbeam and the Chain of Incontinence

Look, every post can't be in iambic pentameter.

What I would like to do here is regale the internet with witty, urbane tales of art and world travel, but sadly, you just get to read about the travails of pet ownership (odorship? No, that's uncalled for).

You see, I am the dubious owner of a cocker spaniel pup named Oliver Sunbeam, Oliver because he has these please-Sir-may-I-have-some-more Victorian orphan eyes, and Sunbeam because he's blond.

Oh dear, is that dog blond.

He can scratch the door for everything except his bodily functioning needs; for bologna, for company, for giggles. If Oliver Sunbeam needs to piddle, however, he simply wanders to the one part of my house with carpet, and he does his business there.

I have spoken at length about this issue with Mr. Cachinsky, my dear spouse and the procurer of the dog in question. He advised me to simply chain my Sunbeam up in the yard for these offenses. Deprived of my company, Mr. Cachinsky's reasoning went, Oliver Sunbeam would reform his ways and place his turdles in the grass where they belonged.

Normally, Mr. Cachinsky's advice is replete with the wisdom of the ages, and I am honored to be his wife. Today, however, I was driven batty by the sound of Oliver Sunbeam, dutifully tied to the Chain of Incontinence, dragging his manicured claws along my front door, demanding entry like a local politician who has his nickname in quotes on his campaign sign. (Yes, Robert "Bobby" Smith, I think I can figure out who you are in the voting booth, thanks. You think I'm too stupid to know Bobby is short for Robert, so guess who I ain't voting for? But I digress.)

Now, a good five minutes of this was all I can bear, not because I'm so tender and gentle or anything, but because I was working, and only three things are allowed to interrupt my work: Mr. Cachinsky, Stolichnaya, and laziness. I capitulated. Surely, I thought, Oliver Sunbeam has learned his lesson. Carpet pissers are despised the world over. The Big Lebowski is proof of this. Oliver Sunbeam is no ferret-wagging nihilist. I released him from the Chain of Incontinence and allowed him access to our domicile. He wagged his tail at me, tongue lolling merrily in the breeze, and skipped down the hall.

Oliver Sunbeam, it transpires, believes in nothing. Except for bologna.

So I spent my afternoon struggling to manuever a steam cleaner down a swath of carpet narrow than the machine, cursing the charlatan snake-oil peddlers of Febreeze and other like-minded products for their ineptitude at removing pet odors and wishing Oliver Sunbeam was who he thought he was-- a real, furry boy, with opposable thumbs, capable of appreciating and using indoor plumbing, even if he did leave the seat up.