It’s A Dog-Eat-Dog (poop bag) World

Two weeks into the New Year and it is already looking like I may have to take out a solid life insurance policy (and maybe a Xanax)…

Have you ever made a resolution knowing that the only thing you are resolved in is the fact that there is no way you are going to be able to keep this up for a month let alone a whole YEAR? I like to call them new year’s intentions because I am recurrently not good at “resolutions,” but I do have the intention to follow through with them.

My family’s new year’s intention is to get healthy. That is why my mother, bless her, signed us up for a 10K. You should know 3 things about this situation. 1: The only thing my family runs is our mouths (while laying on the couch watching Marvel movies). 2: Running in the cold makes my asthma pop up out of the depths of my lungs and say “Hey. I exist. Have fun trying to be a functional human.” 3: I am actually trying to train for this stupid 10K.

The other morning, I decide to take Max with me on my run. This was my first mistake. (Well second, if you count deciding to run in the first place). Max just turned one on Saturday and is one of those dogs that should have been put in puppy school but never was so now you have to make excuses for why he thinks it is okay to do things like try to bite babies hands off.

5 minutes in I can tell this is not going to turn out well, but I persist because apparently I have a subconscious desire to ruin my life. I manage to keep Max from jumping a poor old Asian man from behind (he never fights fair), and he only tripped me once in the first mile (when he literally stopped dead in his tracks as we were running so he could use the restroom).

Okay…so he actually ripped my arm out of its socket and I had to pick up the poop (it’s a law in Austin), and carry it in my hand while running for the next mile until we passed a trash can, but I was willing to look past that in the interest of self-improvement and being a good pet-owner and such.

Except, not 2 minutes after we pass the trash and I throw out the bag, He. Poops. Again.

(Let me preface this by saying my other dog Maggie is lovingly nicknamed two-poops (as she notoriously forgets how to use her insides and somehow always poops twice on walks).

Max looks me dead in the eyes while he does his business as if he is daring me to call him out on his obvious attempt to outshine Maggie in any way possible. (Let me also tell you she is not even there. They have been temporarily banned from walking together because our walks usually go like this…

*Maggie stopping in the middle of the asphalt to flop her body around before seizing up and refusing to take another step
*Max hating Maggie’s existence (and general lack of dog-ness) for the next 5 minutes of this nonsense
*Then he attacks her.)

Despite Maggie’s absence, I know exactly what he is doing. I do not break eye contact with him until he is finished, and I pick it up again EXCEPT this time he has decided that the poop-bag is clearly a new toy I made for him, and lunges for it.

He continues to try to bite the bag out of my hand, my yelling and arm flailing only confirming his suspicions that I am having fun with his new game. He rips through my shirt. He pierces skin. He stops only a moment to look and realize that we are next to the busiest street on the route and there is a line of 12 cars stopped at the stop light beside us.

The discovery of an audience only fuels his massacre, and he begins to leap 5 feet in the air and kangaroo kicks me, just to see what will happen. The cars also get to see what happens as I go careening backwards, poop flinging in the air, and as if to give his audience the grand finale they never knew they wanted, Max catches the bag. At this point I give up fighting, and just focus on keeping Max from giving all the passing drivers nightmares. I rip the bag from him and begin yelling, completely hysterical, ponytail half ripped out when a cute old jogging man passes us.

“Ferocious aint he” he says with a wink, and while I try to explain to him that he’s not mean he just can’t contain himself after more than 2 miles, Max jump-kicks me in the chest.

He is so jazzed up from his poopscapade that he cannot contain himself.

(Similar to this. But times 100000. And in public.)

I shoo him away sheepishly when we happen upon a quaint little family with their toddler in a stroller, and heaven help us, a chihuahua.

Max just wants to be friends with everyone and is literally scared of a sneeze, but he is roughly the size of a small pony with the bite of a crocodile and the energy of a 3-year-old with ADHD who got a hold of a redbull. And has 2 extra arms. And the teeth of a piranha. You get the picture.

The family stops in their tracks upon seeing Max, who is, at this moment, wrapping his leash around my legs then beginning to sprint to make me fall (which is apparently the best thing since sliced bread…or since the bag of poop he tried to eat 2 minutes prior). I get a handle on him and try to usher him ahead as he lunges at the family, all-the-while explaining to the mom that he doesn’t actually want to rip her babies head off.

They laugh but do not continue walking until we are out of sight.

That’s when the school bus driving next to us makes that school bus noise. You know, the one that sounds like a hoard of hissing-souls escaping from the pits of hell. It also is apparently the bane of my dogs existence.

He takes off running and does not stop until we get to the park by our house. Where I spot another toddler. At precisely the moment when Max remembers our house is close by, and he takes off running again, coincidentally towards the unsuspecting child.

The mother looks at me in terror and also with 10000 daggers coming out or her eyeballs. I yank the leash, step in front of Max, and begin to explain he was not running at them when Max remembers that he has the strength of a hundred weightlifters and punches me with all four of his legs. From behind. Knocking me to the ground. Horrified, the lady ushers her child away mumbling something probably along the lines of cursing me and my family and the demon clearly possessing my dog.

We get home, Max telepathically tells Maggie he is better than her to instigate a fight (any kind of attention is still attention), and I sit down and wonder if it counts as quitting if I literally cannot run because my dog has broken both of my legs. And also if they make Adderall for dogs.

4 thoughts on “It’s A Dog-Eat-Dog (poop bag) World

  1. OMG. I have tears!!! 😂🤣😂😂😂
    You could give Jenny Lawson a run for her money! Not a literal run apparently, but…… don’t ever stop writing Ali!! ❤️

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  2. Great writing Ali! The funniest thing I have read all day! Sorry you had to actually live through that though. Keep running with Max. Can’t wait to read more of your misadventures!!

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  3. Mad Max sounds like he was in rare form. I walk him with Maggie or with Havoc and Bane with very little trouble. Since I had him when he was quite little, I think he has me a little higher on his pack hierarchy. Not that he still won’t go bat poop crazy on me. Don’t ever stop writing. You have a gift.

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