Revenge with puppy eyes

I’m staring at my dog eating a raw potato under the kitchen table. It’s the third potato she’s eaten this week.

She’s shredding the flesh with her tiny jigsaw teeth, splitting the skin open with each gnaw. I look away avoiding the pile of potato bites covering the floor.

A veterinarian moment: Because she is only 3 months old, she must have her third vaccine in order to go outside. Until then, she cannot come into contact with any other dog or fecal matter. Thus, she must be kept indoors until she receives her vaccination. She has one week left in the house.

The longer she stays locked up in the house, the more she spites us, and her revengeful side continues to grow. She’s chewed everything. My 10$ H&M pleather purse which I bought after realizing stuffing everything in my pockets makes me a target for pickpocketers. My underwear. The complimentary slippers I took from some hotel I once stayed at. My collection of toilet paper that I keep just in case I need to pee outside. My hands. Everything.

I saw glimpses of her revengeful side after I scolded her for trying to eat my bathing suit.

I held my finger up, wagged it and said, “No.” From that simple action, she decided to hate pee in front of me. She’s peed 8 times in the house today already. It’s noon.

As the dog is still focused on tearing apart the potato, my mother is on the phone with her mother.

“Did you want to talk to Natasha?” my mother says as she walks closer to me.

I’m sitting at the kitchen table in a pair of underwear and an oversized, hair dye-stained t-shirt. I lift my head up and wave my hands, miming typing fingers while anxiously mouthing, “I can’t now.”

“Okay,” she says into the phone while staring at me expressionlessly, “here she is.”

A phone is held in front of my face as I stare at my mother in silence.

I grab the phone and put it to my ear.

“Hi, Oma!” I say enthusiastically, getting up from the kitchen chair to aimlessly walk around the house. While on the phone, I find amusement trying to pick up a cord with my big toe.

We talk about the weather, funeral homes and what I’m having for dinner.

I say goodbye to my Oma and pass the phone back to my mother. I walk back into the kitchen and see my dog peeing on the floor. Ninth time.

I sigh and pick up a piece of paper towel and homemade vinegar disinfectant. I’m unsure if the homemade disinfectant works but at the same time, I’m praying to gets worms for weight loss purposes. I squat down to lay a paper towel on the puddle of pee, my hands are covered with the scratches and bite marks that my dog has branded me with. As a turn my head to look up, I see my laptop charger, completely chewed, with tiny wires untangled, poking out of the industrial rubber coating. My eyes become watery as my face starts to heat up. I take a deep breath and continue cleaning the pee. With each spray of vinegar, I breathe deep and slow. I stand up and turn around to see my dog shitting on the floor. Second time.

“Whhhhy,” I whisper furiously to myself as my eyes fill up. I grab a poop bag, some paper towel, and the vinegar disinfectant. I get on my knees and place my cleaning products beside me. Hovering over the steaming pile of dog shit, I snap.

“AHHHHHHHHH,” I scream to the pile of shit.

It lays there in silence.

My scream turns into a sob and I continue to cry over the pile of shit. With tears streaming down my face, I slam my fist a couple times into the floor, watching my tears dilute the fecal matter.

I clean up the residue, throw it out and go to lay on the couch. My dog blissfully comes running towards me, climbing her way up on the couch, pushing and prying herself up until she’s sitting beside me, delightfully chewing my left hand.

I turn on the tv with my other hand and flip through the channels, staring at the screen with a puffy, red face. The Kardashians are on. Scott bought a Bentley without Kourtney’s permission. Kim and Khole think Scott is out of control with his lying. Kris is eating a salad. A commercial comes on. I hear my dad yelling in the other room. I get up from the couch and see my dad with his shirt held in one hand and a fly swatter in the other.

“Why are you shirtless?” I ask, standing at the kitchen door.

“I need to kill the mosquitos,” he says.

I go back to the couch and stick my hand in my dog’s mouth.