Apartment hunting with…. Wait for it…. A DOG!!!
Dun Dun DUUUUUUUUUUNNN
As I wade through the traitorous pool that is the rental world, I have begun to find a very disturbing trend. Landlord after landlord have the preposterous habit of recommending that I…. get rid… of my DOG.
Lemme set up my soap box and microphone real quick sweetie cause you about to get IT.
A Short List of Things I’d Give up Before Giving Up My Dog
-My very comfortable bed that has survived me for years
-My trusted tube of Burtz Beez
-My bottle of colon cleansing vitamins for those days after a “Cheese and Wine Night”
-My boyfriends beard
-Your left testicle
-Your granddaughters opportunity of ever knowing or having a relationship with her favorite papa
Your $1600 a month, 650 square feet bungalow built in 1970 is NO competition for the little fluff ball that is Harper. She is a queen, a celebrity, a national treasure in her own right.
Let me paint some pics for ya,
When I get home, I kiss my dog before my boyfriend. When I sprain my ankle, I wrap her leash around my crutch and take her around the block just so she can press her little wet nose against some foreign dog’s fecal matter. When I get a yummy popsicle, guess who else gets a yummy popsicle? I have nightmares about her getting hurt far more often than dreams of marrying my boyfriend. When I shed tears, she eats tears, when I have bad gas, she continues to peacefully slumber underneath the covers. You see, there is no me renting your shithole without her… what… destroying your house?
I drink (and spill) a lot of wine. Like a lot. First glass splashes on my shirt 80% of the time. Don’t ever snuggle up with me on the couch if I have a glass of wine or you’ll be wearing that shit (ask my boyfriend or my dog. Oh wait, you would never stoop to the level of conversing with the lowly peasant that is my chihuahua terrier). So chances are, I’m gonna be fucking up your house a whole lot worse than my timid 7 pounder.
Harper is my child and had she been a 30 pound curly headed terror that always has sticky fingers and dirty diapers, it would be morally fucked up and considered discrimination if you were to not rent to me because of her. So why is it so hard for people to trust that I can keep my non sticky, stuck up and high maintenance dog in check? Why rent to a person who is incapable of keeping her house rid of dog shit anyway?
That’s on you kind sir, not me. With that being said, I was super fucking hungover this morning and didn’t take Harper out to potty so I have a huge shit in the hall that I have to clean up. Have a good day y’all and Happy Apartment Hunting!
UPDATE: We have found a place!
I did not think the day would come but guess what came…. today and today I had a walk through with my new property manager Oliver to make sure the place was up to par.
Lemme tell you about Oliver-
Oliver is 65. Oliver talks a whole hell of a lot. Oliver made me cry. Oliver got his ass put in his place. Oliver likes me and gave me the rental even though usually he would “walk away from a deal like this”. Oliver hates dogs.
So Lovely Oliver and I are doing the walk through, checking light bulbs and making sure the oven works when he stops abruptly and gives a weird side way glance.
Lemme tell you a little about my place-
Its my little shoe box. Its small. Its cozy, its close quarters. Its in a quiet complex.
So when Oliver says “I hate to do this to you, but I cant hold it in any longer” I was a little worried about what he had to say. But what came next wasn’t words after all. It was the sound of a locked bathroom door, the grunts of an old man lowering himself onto my brand new sparkling toilet and the sound of what I assume was explosive diarrhea.
I shit you not, Oliver took a shit in my brand new apartment.
So I try to make myself busy…. in my empty house… because I am severely uncomfortable. I find myself running outside, to stare at the “view” (the side of another apartment buiding)… to be as far away from the ensuing crime scene as possible. But I was soon ripped back to reality when I hear good ol’ Oliver singing my name. He giggled when he saw me standing outside with fear in my eyes and beckoned me back into my new apartment which now smelled like his discarded lunch. Did Oliver leave on the fart fan? N0. Leave the bathroom door closed? Negative. So as we filled out the remainder of my rental paperwork, I got to know my property manager better than I ever thought. I got to know what his shit smelled like… as it wafted through my brand new, sparkling one bedroom apartment.
Does this shit ever happen to anyone else?