T. GAMBLE: Rescue daddy cooks up a scheme

Recently, I added one more rescue dog to the herd I already have. We adopted a chihuahua puppy that had been turned in to the Humane Society because it was biting the folk’s child.

In other words, the chihuahua got turned in because he was acting like a chihuahua.

I have never really wanted a chihuahua and, after having this one for a few months, I don’t ever want another one.

We named the little beast El Chapo because every time you put him down he takes off and runs. My wife doesn’t like that name, so she calls him Me Me.

I have no idea why she calls him that, but he doesn’t come to that name either. I usually call him names that are not suitable for a family newspaper, and he also does not come to them.

He sleeps in the bed next to my wife and only wakes me up about eight times a night to play. I’d get more sleep at night in a Turkish prison than lying in bed next to him.

He demands constant attention and my wife spends most of every night talking baby talk to him and pampering him. I could probably be missing for three or four days before anybody in my family would miss me, but if El Chapo is gone for six minutes a full-fledged search and rescue effort ensues.

He is fed whatever he wants to eat and is given full run of the house. When anyone gets home, the first thing they do is run and love on poor little El Chapo … the rescue dog that nobody wanted … poor, poor El Chapo.

In short, life is very good for El Chapo.

I’m beginning to believe there should be a shelter for poor neglected daddies. I’ll check into the shelter and a nice loving family will pick me up and say how sad it is that nobody wanted poor daddy. Then, the family can take me home and feed me whatever I want, the fatter the better, as everyone knows you must have a fat rescue animal to show how much you love them and how good you treat them.

Based on that criteria, I suspect there are a lot of rescue daddies in Terrell County where I live.

I’ll lay around on the couch all day and whenever anyone comes home, I’ll run to the door so they can rub and scratch me all the while saying how bad they feel for me. They can then fight over who gets to hold me and then give me the best spot in the bed, being careful not to move an inch during the night lest it disturb my rest and reduce my sleep time from 22 hours a day to only 21 and a half.

I will probably have to discuss the possibility of neutering, as I’m not real sure that fits into my rescue plans, but otherwise the rescue ticket seems the way to go for me.

I’ll continue to monitor El Chapo, just to make sure being a rescue animal is all it is cracked up to be, as he chews up my $100 loafers and pees on the potted plant in the living room. All I know is, if I come home late at night and tear up the $100 loafers and pee on the potted plant, I don’t get to sleep in the best spot while having my belly rubbed.

I guess my main concern is that I’ll be that rescue posted on Facebook saying, “He’s been with us for six months, and really needs a home. Not much to look at, but he has a sweet temperament when he’s not watching Fox News or kneeling football players.”

Yep, I fear being passed over, so its back home to El Chapo.

Email columnist T. Gamble at [email protected].