MARAMADUMBASS

(Because apparently the dog’s not the only one.)

My daughter had been begging for a cat, and honestly, we needed one. Living next to a creek and the woods basically makes us unwilling hosts to a mice convention. So I thought, Sure, let’s get a cat.

In my infinite wisdom, I decided to bring the whole family along to pick it out. You know—since this new furry roommate would be sharing space with all of us.

Oh, how the tables turned.

My husband and oldest daughter wandered off to “just look” at the dogs. I was fine with that, but I reminded them—loudly—that we were not getting another dog. We already had two babies. TWO. BABIES. We didn’t need more chaos. We didn’t need more poop. We didn’t need more teeth.

Meanwhile, my middle child and I were on a mission. She locked eyes with a chunky not-quite-orange, not-quite-white cat and immediately fell in love. Everyone did. He had the energy of a retired Garfield and the body of a loaf of bread. She named him Butters, and it just fit. I was filling out the adoption paperwork for our perfect little mouse assassin when my husband and oldest daughter came barreling in, faces lit up like they just won the lottery.

“Mom, you HAVE to come see this dog!”

Nope. I already knew. I had lost. I could feel my sanity packing its bags and booking a one-way ticket to anywhere else.

So we all go to see this mystery dog. Apparently, my husband already had him out in the yard tossing balls and exchanging life stories. Of course, they picked the biggest damn dog in the shelter. I’m talking 91 pounds at 10 months old. Stood 6 feet tall on his back legs. Half Great Dane, half coonhound, and 100% chaos.

Meet Dwight.

My only condition for bringing home Marmaduke’s demon cousin was that I had help. Two dogs, one cat, two babies, and two small humans? I’m not a zookeeper.

Naturally, my husband got called out of town… for what was supposed to be a couple of weeks. Spoiler alert: He was gone for a year.A YEAR.

So now I’m flying solo: two kids, two babies, one loaf cat, and one hell-hound the size of a small horse. And then I found out Dwight could climb our privacy fence.

Like a cat.Like a parkour professional.Like he was training for the dog version of American Ninja Warrior.

My daughter sobbed the first time he disappeared. I had to pack all four kids in the car like it was an episode of Cops: Suburban Mom Edition, cruising the neighborhood with snacks and desperation. Hours later, guess who was just sitting on the porch, casually waiting like nothing happened?

Dwight.

This dog either has a genius IQ or gives zero craps. Probably both. He continued to escape—often—so we got a lead. He ate it. We got another. He chewed through that too. He ate the ropes off our kids’ swing set, destroyed part of the playground, and went full trash panda on every bin in a five-house radius.

The final straw? The Creek Incident.

Dwight was caught waist-deep in creek mud by a neighbor after a trash buffet. That night, he started puking like a frat boy on dollar beer night. The kids also had a stomach virus, so my house sounded like a horror movie. Dwight escalated. Puking. Pooping blood. No water staying down. Husband still gone.

I called my dad like it was a 911 emergency. He rushed Dwight to the animal hospital, where they basically asked for our left kidney and $1,400 just to tell us Dwight had a blockage. They gave him meds, told us if it didn’t pass, he’d need surgery.

I was done.

This dog busted out of every crate we tried—until we used two ratchet straps like he was a wild animal. He’s house-trained, but if he gets mad at us? He stares into your soul and pees. Right there. Eye contact and everything. We've tossed couches. Rugs. Pride.

Nothing—and I mean nothing—compares to the toxic sludge that once came out of his butt. I can handle poop. I have kids. But whatever crawled out of Dwight that night was weaponized. My eyes watered. My nose burned. I was gagging so hard at 3 a.m. I woke my mom up—a nurse—and even SHE said,

“That’s worse than C. diff.”

We spent hours cleaning carpets. Got the kids off to school like walking zombies. I drank more coffee than humanly advisable.

I called my husband at least once a week with, “You need to come get your dog before I sell him on Craigslist for free. Or slightly used. Or just leave him at the fire station like a baby in a basket.”

We became that family. The neighbors hated us. The dog warden knew us by name. They started joking with us every time they returned Dwight like he was a stolen package.

And today? We’re still here. Still chasing Dwight down alleyways. Still reinforcing fences. We’re finally putting in an electric one, and if that doesn’t work—I’m building a moat.

So yeah… welcome to the life of a MARAMADUMBASS.Not just the dog.All of us.