To Exhaust A Milo

I swear I could give a handy to the guy who invented dog parks.



What?
Too much?

Milo is sleeping on the couch right now.
ooh, it feels good just TYPING those words.
When we get up in the morning at around 7:00....okay, 7:30....okay, 8:00...okay 8:30 today, but in my defense I got very little sleep on account of Brian trying out for a gold metal in gymnastics in his sleep last night.
Anyhoodle, when we get up in the morning, Milo goes berzerk. That's the only way I can describe it. He does this little bark thing non-stop while spinning in circles and chasing the cats and dragging my socks and underwear around the house, and I'll tell you, it's all I can do to not send him on his way in a boxcar with little stick and a bindle attached to the end of it.



But then there's the dogpark.
And speaking as someone who has personally tried (and failed) to sedate their dog into a coma, there is nothing better at putting Milo to sleep than letting him run around the dog park.



Granted, where most dogs need about 20 minutes of nonstop running before they piddle out, Milo needs about 90 minutes.



And in truth, I have yet to see him piddle out at the dog park. Even when we're leaving, he's starting shit with the other dogs and doing his best to chew through Jericho's jugular.



And where all the other dogs are walking away all calm and tuckered out, Milo's all:



Hey wait where are we going? is that a bird? Jericho why aren't you biting back? let's play lets play lets plaaayyyyyy...oh you want to hump me? okay thats cool but only if I get to hump you back man I love being outside lets go back to the park hey is that another dog up ahead? Hellllooooo dog do you want to play? can I sniff your butt? oh man we should be running around right now let's go....oh wait, I'm still attached to the leash? that's a bummer but maybe I can break it if I throw myself on it really harrrdddddd...okay that didn't work hey where is that dog going? is he going to the dogpark? I want to go to the dogparrrrrkkkkkk...



..And so forth, until I yank his leash really hard and get my face all up in his face and use passive aggressive techniques to try to get him to calm the hell down, like, "oh, I'm sorry, did I not entertain you enough for one day? Oh that's right...you're a fucking dog..." and when all else fails, threaten to cut his throat and watch him bleed to death right then and there, because I haven't had my coffee yet.



What?
I wouldn't actually do it.
(although after catching him eating my expensive riding glove a few days ago, I'm suppressing the urge to collect my pound of flesh)



And when we get home, he's still a little hyper. He comes in all bouncy and excited and the cats run like the wind.
It's hysterical, and in the case of the fat cat, healthy too.



But then - BUT THEN - he starts to slow down. He drags my T-shirt out from the bedroom and sets himself up on the couch and I watch with glee as his eyes get sleepier and sleepier and before you know it?



Bingo.

WE HAVE A POOPED PUP

Yeah, that's right. Sleep, you little fucker.
Sleeeeeeepppppp.

To conclude, I'd like to point out that I've essentially quit my job to shuttle Milo to and from the dogpark.

But on the bright side, at least I've figured out my purpose in life...