My dog has his own theme song.

No joke. My dog has his own theme song. It's part of the reason I chose his name... because I love this movie, and because he likes to alternately prance around so everyone can witness his awesomeness and sit stoically with his paws crossed, judging you with his eyes like he's the G.D. emperor of Mesopotamia.

"What's his name? Kuzcoooooooooo!"

Since I've been a bit preoccupied this last month or so, Kuzco's nails were beginning to more closely resemble talons than nails, so I finally took him to get them trimmed yesterday. I should really learn how to do this myself, because they basically rob me blind for about 10 minutes of work, but hey, that's supply and demand, I guess. Plus, whenever I think about doing it myself, I envision a blood bath of epic proportions (see below). However, they also clean out his ears and brush his teeth and then use this cool grinding tool to grind his nails down so they don't scratch the shit out of the leather seats in my car, which is very much appreciated, so I usually just suck it up and take him in.

This is probably what would happen if I tried to trim Kuzco's nails in the car.

When I went back to pick him up after the nail trim/ear cleaning/tooth brushing, his tail was wagging so hard that he was vibrating, and he starting dodging back and forth when he saw me, jumping around and doing that weird wriggly thing that he does, as if I'd been gone for days instead of a mere ten minutes. Kuzco is, for the most part, a very smart and well-behaved dog, but when he gets excited, he seems to be unable to channel in to the intelligent part of his brain. So, when the groomer went to open the gate to let him out, he stayed on the other side, where it hinged, peeking through the gap in the door at me and clawing desperately in an attempt to get out, as if the flames of a thousand fires were after him. The girl kept trying to coax him to the other side of the gate, where I was standing, very easily accessible to him, but he refused to listen, instead continuing to panic because he couldn't exit through the one place that he had decided was the ONLY place you could exit. Being the asshole that I am, I started laughing hysterically, which was absolutely no help to neither the groomer nor my dog. After a good thirty seconds of this nonsense, I finally composed myself enough to reach over and guide him around the gate while the groomer looked at me like I was crazy. If she only knew. I thanked her, and we began our journey to the checkout lanes to surrender half my salary pay for the 'Pawdicure Plus' that had just been bestowed upon my beloved four-legged friend.

I should mention here that Kuzco in a pet store is pretty much a recipe for disaster. This is the dog who used to pee on humans to mark them; although he doesn't do that anymore, he can be fairly territorial, to the point where he has to wear a dog diaper sometimes when we go to houses where other dogs live. I'm actually kind of hoping he'll read this post and it will shame him into behaving in the future, but I doubt it. The part about it shaming him into behaving, I mean. I firmly believe that as soon as I leave the house, Kuzco dons a monacle and bow tie and reads Encyclopedia Britannica, so I have no doubt he knows how to access my computer and, therefore, reads my blog.

You should also note that the floors in the store are the dog equivalent of ice skating rinks; they couldn't get any type of traction on them if they tried. So, what normally ensues is a hilarious spectacle of him lifting his leg to pee every five seconds while I very calmly, firmly, and authoritatively say 'NO' and jerky his leash to emphasize my dominance. At that point, he usually attempts to run away from me defiantly and, instead of the open road and the feeling of the wind on his face that he's hoping for, he immediately loses his footing and goes skidding/crashing into the nearest display. This happens approximately 5-6 times each visit. If we're really lucky, there will be a gigantic dog in the store at the same time, which will send him into hysterics. He definitely has little dog syndrome. If you're smaller than him, or even the same size, you're cool, but if you're bigger than him, fuck you. He will intimidate you with fierce growling until you roll over in terror. I know a lot of men like that, too, but that's a whole 'nother story.

There were no big dogs this time, but there was a particularly attractive rack of dog-themed greeting cards that Kuzco felt the need to claim as his own, and since I didn't jerk the leash fast enough, he did just that. Luckily, the store employees didn't feel the need to make me pay for a urine-soaked birthday card, which was a good thing, because I'm not quite sure when I would have been able to use it. A few squirts of cleaning solution and a handful of paper towels later, we made it to the checkout. Kuzco continued to attempt to escape, slip-sliding all over the damn place while the kind saleswoman rang me up. As we were waiting for my debit card to clear, she asked if she could give him a treat. 

Me: That's really sweet; of course you can. Although I should warn you, he's kind of weirdly particular about his treats.

Saleswoman: (joyful, fake, Santa-like chuckle) Oh, that's no problem. Every dog loves these!!!! (<-- these exclamation points represent unnecessary enthusiasm)

Me: (joyful, fake Santa-like chuckle right back at her) I'm sure they do!!!! (<-- again with the unnecessary enthusiasm) Kuzco, come here and get a treat!

The woman knelt down to get his attention and held out a treat; Kuzco galloped over to her in a fit of excitement, and I thought for a moment, hey, he might actually eat it like a normal dog. Then I realized that she was holding out a Milkbone. Unfortunately, Kuzco refuses to eat any treat that isn't bite sized. Literally. The only way he will eat Milkbones is if I first break them up into manageable pieces for him. God forbid his highness actually chew something other than my favorite Nike sandals himself.

After sniffing the treat for a moment, he took it from her hand, held it gingerly in his mouth, and turned to look at me with an air of exasperated expectation. I could practically hear him saying, "Human, please break this up into smaller pieces so that I can enjoy it, post-haste." I gave him the evil eye in response. He glared right back at me defiantly, carefully placed the treat on the ground, and sat behind it expectantly. Asshole. The poor saleswoman watched this standoff obliviously, becoming more distraught by the second that my 'adorable dog' didn't want the treat that she had so generously offered to him.

Saleswoman: (lip quiver) Well, he just doesn't like them, I guess.... (sniffle)

Me: No, no, he loves it.. he just.. um.. loves it so much, that he wants to savor the moment, you know?

So I picked up the damn Milkbone off of the floor, broke it in half, and held it out to Kuzco, who gleefully snatched first one half, and then the other, out of my hand and scarfed it down, leaving my hand a mess of dog slobber and Milkbone crumbs.

He may have won this round, but I figure that's okay, because he's getting a bath tomorrow. We'll see who's laughing then.