Now that K has finally forgiven me for not having the stomach to authorize administration of the sleepy shot to Azure, she has found herself the recipient of Azure’s peculiar form of psycho-love. And the adoration is wholly reciprocated by K.
Azure can be sitting perched at my shoulder, licking her chops, preparing to eat my face off, and K will look lovingly at her and say, “Awwww. . . isn’t she the cutest?”
I laugh nervously, and agree. I have learned better than to get in the middle of this love fest.
This lesson was reinforced last week. Azure was sitting on the non-bedroom side of the baby gate, gazing longingly through at K lying in bed drinking her morning coffee. Azure was vociferously expressing her displeasure at this arrangement, her on one side, K on the other with me, when I got the brilliant idea to engage in a little game called taunt the psycho pup.
Here’s how the game worked:
I caught Azure’s eye through the gate, walked over to K, leaned over and planted a kiss on her forehead. I looked at Azure, who was staring at this activity with ire. I caught her eye again, and bent down and kissed K’s chin. Azure howled in disgust and looked at me with the contempt of Jerry Falwell shaking Anna Nicole Smith’s hand. Catching her eye again, I smiled at Azure and then stooped at the side of the bed, laying my head on K’s chest, looking Azure in the eye the whole time.
I needed to get to work, so I scrambled up, opened the baby gate to allow Azure entrée, and finished my workday preparations. Azure promptly joined K in bed. As I bustled around the room, Azure caught my eye. She looked right at me, stuck her snout up, and kissed K on the chin. I laughed and patronizingly patted Azure’s head. Azure then curled up in my spot in the bed, as close to K as physically possible without an umbilical cord, and suspiciously eyed me as I moved about the room.
Later that day while I was at work, Azure carefully sorted through a heap of dirty clothes on the bedroom floor, separated my clothes from K’s, and deposited a smoldering pile of poop on my clothes.
“Awwww. . . isn’t that the cutest?” Did I mention that I don't do laundry?