I'm a big guy, two hundred pounds. I pay the mortgage, I pay the electric bill, I pay for a lot of crap around here. Mark is big enough, over a hundred pounds of snarling, New Jersey attitude. And then there is Chandler, my big boy dog. You would think we would all be near the top of the food chain in this house. We are not.
I was in the my office doing some serious business on the computer when I heard the plaintive whines of Chandler coming from the living room. I put the card game on hold and took a peek around the corner. There was my eighty pound mutt trembling in fear, and giving me his most desperate 'Come and save me' look. On the floor was eleven pounds of fury in a fur coat, and on the sofa was Chandler trying to get past her. Bette had Chandler trapped. This is nothing new, Bette rules this house. If Bette doesn't want Chandler to get on the bed, Chandler can't get on the bed. If Bette wants to play tug of war with a squeaky toy, Chandler has to play or he gets his ankles and ears chewed on. It's not just Chandler who is bossed around by little Bette, Mark is on her shit list too. If Chandler isn't available for play she attacks Mark, running up to him and nipping at his pant leg. As for me, I am her humble servant. I do not get nipped at, or attacked with a squeaky toy. I am there to feed her, walk her, and make sure her every need is met. I get to change the puppy pee pads in her personal bathroom, which we used to call the sun room. I pick the burrs out of her fur, and the ticks off her ass. I am also available to save Chandler from her, which is what I did. I picked her up and held her while Chandler managed to escape. I then carried her into the bedroom where Mark was, and told her to have at it.