Rainy Days with Oskar

Before I got a dog, I used to love rainy days. No, really. Rainy days were an excuse to stay in my sweatpants, get a few things done around the house, and be just a little bit lazy. Any time I thought of something I didn't really want to do, I could always say to myself, "Eh. . . but it's raining," and I would feel a little less guilty about putting something off until tomorrow. In other words, rainy days were small pockets of bliss in my otherwise hectic life.

And then Oskar entered the picture. The little 10-pound sausage dog turned my world upside down in more ways than one, but none more so than my feelings towards rainy days. Now, when I wake up and see this:

outside my window, I cringe. "Ugh," I think to myself, "it's a rainy day with Oskar."

For those of you who don't know, Oskar is a VERY high energy dog who requires way more exercise than we ever could have imagined and has an extreme type-A personality. He is adamant about his daily "routine," and God help anyone who messes it up. Even Mother Nature.

Our normal routine consists of a walk in the morning. Now, I don't mind walking in the rain. As long as I've got my umbrella and my seriously cute rainboots, I'm all set. It might as well be raining kryptonite in Oskar's eyes, however. This dog knows when it's raining before he even pokes his head out of the covers in the morning. Rainy mornings will usually end up with me getting out of bed, fixing breakfast, and then waiting. . . and waiting. . . and waiting for a certain wiener dog to finally make his daily appearance. More often than not, I will give up, yank the covers off, and physically get him out of bed. Problem solved, right? Nope, the little stinker will rush right under the bed, the one place he knows I can't get to him. Masking my frustration, I will use my most cheerful voice and ask him if he wants to go for a walk (one of those magic Oskar words). Nothing. Next, I'll try bribes:

"Oskar. . . you want a treat?"

Nothing.

SQUEAK! SQUEAK! "You wanna play with your toy?!"

Nothing.

"How about a piece of cheese? You want a piece of CHEESE?!"

Still nothing.

By this point, the dog has been holding his bladder for over 12 hours, and I know he's gotta go. Unfortunately, I have no choice but to just sit and wait for his bladder to win in its battle with his mind, which it ultimately will. Key word "ultimately."

When he finally does emerge from under the bed, I grab him via sneak attack and attach his leash before he even knows what's going on. Then comes the fight of a lifetime trying to get him downstairs and out the door. This involves him using all of his strength to plant himself on the floor and refuse to move. Luckily all the floors are linoleum; if there were any surfaces into which he could really dig himself, I'd be in trouble. Even luckier still, he's small enough for me to just pick him up and force him to go outside. Ahhhh. . . small victories.

Once we get outside, I set him back on the ground; he immediately turns around and tries to go back inside. "No, no," I say. "We have to go potty first."

Oskar will walk two steps and relieve himself on the nearest bush for a good 5 minutes (if you hadn't gone in 12 hours, you'd have to pee, too), and will again turn around and try to go back inside.

"No, no" I say again. "You have to go poopy first."

Blank stares.

"Poopy, Oskar. You have to go poopy?"

More blank stares.

Oh, the joy the other people in our apartment building must get from seeing a grown woman arguing with a wiener dog outside their window. I'm sure it's absolutely a hoot--for everyone else. Now, before you say, "Jenn--he's s a dog. He doesn't understand," keep in mind that Oskar does know a few words, "poopy" being one of them. Blank stares are pure Oskar trickery. He THINKS that I'll feel sorry for him and let him go back inside if he looks all sad, wet, and pitiful. I, on the other hand, KNOW that I will wait outside for as long as it takes because I have experienced WAY too many of the nasty smells that can come out of this dog when he is holding a number two. . . and I am NOT willing to put up with that for the rest of the morning. Eventually, I win this round, Oskar goes poopy, and we retire back to the house.

Of all the elements of his routine, Oskar is the most flexible with his morning walk. No walk? No problem, especially on rainy days. The lazy little boy will come right back inside and return to bed until about 1:00 (his internal clock is uncanny). . . at which point he knows it's time to go to the park.

Even if it's still pouring down rain, Oskar will follow me around the house giving me sad looks and not letting me get ANYTHING accomplished until I agree to take him outside. Suddenly, Mr. Finicky LOVES the rain. I, on the other hand, cannot throw a tennis ball AND hold an umbrella at the same time. So, we compromise, and I take him to the commissary parking garage. The top floor of the garage is rain-free and almost always empty--a perfect place to toss a tennis ball around on a rainy day. However, as I've said, it's almost always empty. Today we were surprised by the lone random car driving through---which Oskar prompty proceeded to chase through the garage, while a fat pregnant lady chased him, arms flailing wildly, screaming at the top of her lungs. When I finally DID catch up to him (not because I was fast enough, but because the driver of the car was kind enough to stop), I grabbed him by the collar and started yelling "Bad dog! Bad, bad dog!" Then I started shaking. Then I started crying. And Oskar just stood there with his tail wagging.

I was so mad/scared/relieved that I decided, rain or not, this doggy was taking a walk. No more playtime. So I snapped on his leash and out we went from the parking garage. I had my umbrella and my seriously cute rainboots; I was just fine. Oskar, however, was back to hating the rain. He fought me and fought me and, again, there we stood in front of Seoraksan Tower, a grown woman arguing with her wiener dog. I finally managed to get him to take a walk (by dragging him 3/4 of the way--an even more hilarious sight, I'm sure, for my lucky neighbors), but when I got him to the front door, he decided he absolutely would not walk anymore. Keep in mind, we're now out of the rain and ready to go inside, and the stubborn little booger just quits on me. I have no choice but to pick him up---all 10 pounds of soaking wet mess. THIS is his revenge for making me take him for a walk. I was cozy and dry during the walk while he got soaked. Now, it's my turn to get wet and nasty.

A wet dog is one thing. A wet wiener dog is another. Oskar is so low to the ground that his entire belly gets soaked and covered in pieces of sand and mud from the ground. When I finally got him inside, his belly looked like this:

And that is with HALF of the dirt and water now residing on my sweatshirt.

After a thorough scrubbing and some Pina Colada puppy spray to get rid of the smell (which apparently burns like acid, if the way Oskar squirms and whines is any indication), I let him loose. . . and that's when he REALLY decides to let me have it. "Take away my time at the park?" he seemed to ask. "I'll show you!" Over the next two hours, he barked continuously, chewed a hole in my favorite blanket, scratched our furniture, and destroyed his favorite (and only) squeaky tennis ball:

(I don't think he realizes he was really just screwing himself on this one--HE'S the one that will be upset later tonight when he goes to play with it and finds out it doesn't work anymore.)

As I write this, Oskar is curled up next to me, having worn himself out by being an absolute TERROR and finally forgiving me for disturbing his routine. I, on the other hand, can only sit here and pray that tomorrow will bring sunshine and my sweet little dog back to me.

And thank God that we're moving to the desert in a few months.