My Olympic moment: Fetch the Perrier

If you were looking for my blog this morning, you would have been disappointed.
I was in a crabby mood because, for the last few months, Finnigan has been getting me up at 6 a.m. and I'm exhausted. It's not the letting him out part that gets to me. Within six minutes, I have to let him out to pee, give him two food balls, feed Gordie, then let him and Gordie out again.
I swear the little bastard has a stop watch.
Then he barks in my face for 60 minutes straight until Scott wakes up to take him for his walk. I like to relax, have some tea, make the breakfast smoothie, read my Kindle -- which has mysteriously disappeared and I'm suspecting Finn buried it in the backyard -- and then get ready to go to the gym. But Finn has recently raised his own expectations. We've started taking him for long jogs at the Conroy Pit dog park. We don't do it everyday because Scott works and I'm afraid to ride in the car with him alone. But he now thinks he deserves the dog park every morning.
And so he barks this high pitch bark -- he could be one of The Fucking Ten Sopranos, I swear to God -- until I walk him instead of waiting for Scott WHO'S JOB IT IS...
By the way, we get back and he's not satisfied. He doesn't want the once around the park walk, he wants the Walk Around the Hospital Happy Meal.
So there's that.
By the time I was through with him, I went to the gym to blow off some steam around 8:30 a.m.
Where I made a critical error in judgment.
I got interested in the tennis match between Roger Federer and some dude from Argentina whom I have never heard of before. Given Roger's stature, I figured it was a slam dunk and I'd be out of the gym in under an hour.
No way, Jose. That Juan dude was a fighter and they kept going back and forth, each one winning their serve. Tie, tie, tie.
The thing is, I started on the elliptical machine and vowed to stay there until the match was over.
I think you know where this is going.
About an hour in, I couldn't take it anymore and took my shakey ass over to the bike where I peddled for an hour and half until my knees started aching. Then I went back to the elliptical.
Needless to say, I started my Olympic journey at 8:30 a.m. and finished it at 11:30 a.m.
Three hours.
Working out.
WTF?
Truth be told, I was pretty proud of myself.
I arrived home ready for a three eggwhite burito and instead I was treated to four frantic phone calls and eight frantic messages from Scott who needed me to take him to the bank.
When I finally got into the kitchen, I was stared down by Finnigan who by now was PISSED OFF at me.
"Where the hell were you?"
That's what I think he was barking.
For four and a half hours.
As I write this, he has finally fallen asleep after a Federer-sized game of throw the Perrier bottle.
And that, my friends, is my Olympic moment.
I bet Roger Federer doesn't get barked at.
I bet he doesn't have to stop everything to go to the bank.
I bet he has never, not once, been forced to play fetch the Perrier bottle.
Where's my medal?

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