Straight Up Gangsta, Yo

Meet Wilson: 

I'm ready for my closeup, Mr. DeMille.

Don't be fooled by that innocent look in his eyes, he's a straight up Gangster. And he'll bust a cap in your ass.   It's been a couple of years since I've been his victim Mom and he's a handful.  And by "Handful" I mean he's a total dick.

I don't know why I adore the little shit, but I do.  Stockholm Syndrome?  He's the complete opposite of the dog that we thought we were adopting and he still managed to crawl up into my heart and settle in.

I'm no trouble.  I swear!

This is Wilson's picture on the rescue group website when we found him (and I wholeheartedly recommend You Lucky Dog Pet Rescue - they're spectacular!).  Doesn't his face say "take me home and love me forever"?  Suckers.

His foster parents told us that he "really likes to sit on your lap & snuggle all day".  Sounds great, right?  Except the only reason he was sitting on anyone's lap was because they had a pocket full of treats.  Since I don't generally carry a stockpile of treats in my pockets on a regular basis, or ever, Wilson spends zero percent of his time on my lap. Or sitting.  His foster parents also said he likes to run around a little and then he falls asleep.  Nope.  He likes to run around All. Day. Long. and take 10 minute power naps to recharge before he begins again.

Anyway, we chose him and we brought him home.

First day in our family and ready to commence home annihilation.

Jeff worked from home every Wednesday when we adopted Wilson, and he lasted exactly one week before he told me that "Wilson needs to be out of the house on Wednesdays from now on, starting immediately".  Guess *somebody* doesn't enjoy a dog party.

Enter Doggie Day Camp:

Why yes, you can take my picture.  I'm also available for autographs.

 

I dug a hole for you guys.  Do you like it?

The Day Camp staff immediately dubbed his visits "Wilson Wednesdays" and after a couple of weeks they said his camp name is "The Wilsonator". Of course it is.  Every time I drop him off I say "God help you" to the employees and run back to my car as quickly as possible.  They seem to have a very high tolerance for a-holes at Day Camp, because they love him. More suckers! 

So we settled in with our new buddy and things were going great until we discovered: he's a runner.  Oh, God, is he ever a runner.  And nothing good comes from "Dogs Gone Wild".

Exhibit A: One Wednesday morning on the way to camp, Wilson jumped out the tiny rear window of my car for a little rush hour romp along Buford Highway.  Good Times.  It was right after this incident that I realized I would have to trade in my beloved BMW convertible for something more appropriate for transporting the little shit my boy.  Hello Jeep!

Buford Hwy Escape Pod.  It was too nice for me anyway.

Exhibit B:  When my brother opened the front door of our house one Saturday a few weeks later, Wilson decided he'd step out to stretch his legs a bit.  He stretched them all the way down our street and almost to Peachtree Industrial Boulevard. When Scott finally caught up to the little turd, he called me to bring a leash and pick them up and I accidentally rammed the hood of his Honda with my Jeep when I pulled out of the garage. Wilson still owes us $1,500 for the repairs.

It actually gives the hood a bit of character.

We got the running away under control by never, ever using the front door to our house.  Ever.  Problem solved.

But we had another problem - the chewing:

Nom, Nom, Nom.

I was just deciding what to read, Mom.

At this point we had been Wilson's prisoners family for 6 months, so we did the only thing we could think of to keep him entertained.  We got a dog for our dog.

Welcome to the family, Gracie:

Good Girl!

And these two?  Inseparable!

How cute is this?!?!

My heart can't take it!

Stop already, it's too much!

So sweet!  Until we realized that Gracie also enjoys the occasional leash-free romp through downtown Buford, particularly in the late evening hours.  Bonus points if it's winter, close to midnight and Jeff's already asleep.  She doesn't leave my side if we're outside without Wilson, but if The Canine Crusader is in the vicinity all bets are off.  Like the time he pulled me down into a face plant on the driveway, yanked his leash out of my hand and took Gracie on a scenic tour through downtown at 1 a.m. on a February night, dragging his leash behind him the entire time.  I had to wake Jeff up to find them and I probably should have headed to the ER for stitches to close the gash in my forehead where my glasses hit me, but I decided it was a better idea just to pretend it never happened.  More good times.

There's also a great deal of wrestling in our house on any given day, which usually occurs on the exact spot where Jeff or I are standing. Being upright is overrated. And I don't mean a little playful tussling.  I'm talking full on balls-to-the-wall, hounds of hell, somebody's gonna die throw downs.  All in the name of fun.  I'm thankful every day that Gracie is much bigger than Wilson and can put him in his place, normally by throwing all her weight on his back and pancaking him.  He loves it more than he should. Guess all the men in our family like big girls.

And why do I put  up with this foolishness?  Because Wilson may just be my favorite dog ever!  Sorry, Max.  He genuinely tries to be good.  He just sucks at it.  He can be the sweetest, most affectionate boy ever.  He'll walk up to me, rest his chin on my knee and melt my heart.  And when I wake up every morning, he's plastered next to me in bed with his head on the pillow next to mine. Then all transgressions are forgiven.  Except the couch.

I know I should get him some training. OK, a lot of training.  With a side of more training.  But I kind of like him just the way he is:  Loud and crazy and silly and sweet and strong and a little bit sensitive and whole lot bad ass.  He's just Wilson.  And he's my boy!

Yo, G. Straight Outta Buford!

My lunch art experience didn't help much with pet portraiture.

Yes he is!