By Sean Minton
I always knew there was something strange about my pitbull, but I did not think much of it when my family adopted him. His name alone, Crixus, is confusing enough.
Don’t look at me. I didn’t name him, but the unusual name is fitting for this oddball dog.
One of the first bizarre encounters was when I was hearing noises outside my room. My house is positioned with the living room right outside my bedroom door, so I thought it was one of my family members at the dinner table. Then I realized I was the only one home and began to panic.
I grabbed the closest object near me, which happened to be a broken tripod with a mannequin head attached to it (don’t ask), and prepared to attack any intruders. I quickly flung the door open and flipped on the nearest light switch to surprise any possible attackers. However, I was not prepared for what was awaiting.
Crixus, a 56-pound dog, managed to get on top of the dining table and was just standing there in the dark. No food or beverages were on the table, nothing at all to encourage his efforts. He was standing on the table in the pitch dark, proud of his accomplishment.
Coming from someone who used to eat mayonnaise sandwiches, this event was strange as hell to me!
After the “situation,” I discovered my dog likes to play hide-and-seek. Instead of hiding himself, he plays his own game of “Hide the Feces.” Crixus knows it is bad to use the bathroom on the carpet, but he found a loophole. Instead, Crixus hides his feces in places that aren’t the carpet. Exhibit A: he found a way to defecate into my sibling’s mid-calf cowboy boots. I am not sure how he achieved such accuracy, but Crixus was successful in his mission.
Besides hiding his stools, Crixus is also a diva. There have been several cases where I will try to take him out to use the bathroom, but he will lay in his cage and growl. I don’t understand his reaction because he knows he has to use the bathroom.
His diva moments eventually backfired on me when he had a surprise case of explosive diarrhea. The morning of “The Big Bang,” Crixus decided to throw a fit instead of going outside to simply take care of his business. So, what do I do? I gave in and let him stay in his cage. My foolish mistake.
While I was away, Crixus decided he needed to go. Unfortunately, he was locked in his cage. His solution was to back his rear-end against the cage and proceed to defecate around the entire outside of the cage.
Returning home to the rancid scent, equivalent to the likes of a hot fuming Floridian summer sewer, of doggie fecal matter is no way to conclude a hectic day. The tortuous cleanup was not just a task. It was an awakening. I’m starting to believe Crixus hates me.