Melissaphobia (Part 1: Hell Hound)

A couple of years before I met her, Melissa got dumped hardcore by a boyfriend who must have woken up one morning and gone "Woah, I'm dating a total dependent bitch with no personality of her own, and she's not even that good looking."

She didn't take that well. She apparently spent months crying in bed, leaving only for work and the occasional Ben & Jerry's run (the one aspect of her personality I respected). To get her out of her slump, her grandfather bought her a new puppy: Gussy. Gussy was named after Melissa's dead grandmother. This was my first clue that she was somewhat unbalanced.

The first three months that Gussy was in Melissa's possession, the two did everything together, including sleeping in the same bed. Those of you who know anything about dogs know that sleeping with the dog on a regular basis is a big nono. You must establish that you are the alpha, or you run the risk of having your new companion turn into Frankenpuppy.

Even obedience school couldn't save Gussy from being a horrid little shitstain. Maybe it's because, as a miniature dachsund, she had a Napoleonic complex (sometimes known as a Devito complex). I imagine that it had more to do with Melissa's intimacy issues.

The first day I moved in, Melissa and I were talking in the hallway when Gussy wandered in from the kitchen and took a shit next to Melissa's foot. Melissa's response: "Gussy, I can't believe you're doing this right in front of me." Then, to me: "She usually waits until I'm in the other room before she does her business on the floor."

Ummm...she usually shits on the floor?

"I take her out for walks all the time" (this was true) "but for some reason she likes to do her business in the house." She did. Every night. Every day. Whenever Melissa was home, Gussy was pissing and shitting on the floor. I locked my bedroom door and always watched my feet when I walked around the house.

Melissa was forever stepping in piss puddles (which she referred to as widdle water) and saying "Gussy, bad dog." Then she would give her a treat.

The true victims of the frequent floods of widdle water were the Midnight Men. None of whom ever learned from previous experience to watch their feet when they entered the house. Unless of course none of the Midnight Men were repeat customers. I couldn't tell any of them apart. And when even a gay whore can't keep track of all the random dick that comes into the house to fuck his roommate, you know there's a problem.