I used to be a sappy, squeezy, snuggly dog person, but after the unspeakable incident of ’03, I have made my heart dead inside. To an extent. So even the cuteness of Tonto fails to arouse a wellspring of joy.
I feel like Jemima looks. Oh, the ennui.
Barely tolerating the wretched burden of this life thrown upon her. She used to be a contender, dining on duck treats in a pre-Hurricane Katrina Big Easy, but then she got craigslisted by the lumberjack-bearded friend of her dead owner and wound up in our back yard, hardly suffering Tontos gladly.
So she chases him. Tries to chase the stupid out of him. To no avail.
Round and round they go, her ten-year-old limbs chasing his younger, jauntier, more bassetty frame.
I tell you what–if this O’Dingle were a human being, he’d surely have a spot for him in the Blog of Funny Names tout de suite. However, he is only a stubby-legged dog, long dead and gone. Which would you prefer as your pet–the schnauzer or this chow chow? Don’t forget how ill-tempered chows can be.
On the night of the Supermoon, out for a walk in the balmy Kansas air, we spotted a man walking his two dogs. The children ran to him, declaring him Bullseye, the Target mascot. The owner then alleged that Bullseye was indeed their cousin. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. To the adults, however, we did not see Bullseye. We saw Spuds McKenzie, Budweiser mascot from the 1980s. What do you see?
In an effort to distract myself from current health issues (apparently 40 is the new 110), I picked up a 50 cent copy of the April 2012 Country Living and start flipping through the pages of flea market finds, cedar gazebos, and vine-ripened tomatoes, in reds and green pretty enough to frame. I think about how great it would be to slice those babies up and shove them between bacon and lettuce.
I skip past Easter eggs covered with temporary tattoos of larks and butterflies. I pass a page on how to prettify your potting shed. I lament that I have no potting shed. And then I come to this. Are you kidding me? I like dogs, people, but are you freaking kidding me? This is nicer than my freshman college dorm wall-pull-out bed. This is nicer than my junior year’s papasan, which by the way, Pier 1 still sells. Because who doesn’t love the marriage of a satellite dish balanced on a wicker frame? BTW, do they sell pagers to go with them? And bottles of Clearly Canadian? And cassettes from Toad the Wet Sprocket?
If your dog is a CEO of a Fortune 500 company, then, yes, he needs a $70 monogrammed canvas bed or a $208 linen sleeper. Heck, why not get him a Select Comfort bed while you’re at it? To think of all those childhood Christmases I spent sleeping on a shag-carpeted floor with a sheet and a blanket at my grandparents’ house, and I could have had a doggie duvet? Psh!
Look, before my son was born, I thought my dog had hung the moon. I brushed his teeth, I took him jogging, I trimmed his nails, he slept inside my home. Now my two dogs stay in the backyard, free to run and irritate one another, lucky to get a daily pat on the head from me, along with a heartworm pill every month. That’s reality. I roll my eyes and scan the adjacent page. Apparently, this is the dog-themed section: Real meat? No corn, wheat, or soy? Are dogs gluten-intolerant now? My childhood dog ate his own poo. I can say with certainty that he’d be down with corn and soy. If your lifespan only averages a decade, I say live it up.
Now, I know two years have passed since this product came out, and folks are free to do as they wish with their disposable income. But viewing it, in combination with the plush dog beds, made me think how delighted a homeless person would be to enjoy either. Or someone in a Third World country, sleeping in a dirt hut, drinking contaminated water, feasting on seeds. I bet they’d love a plastic tub of Chicken Paw Pie (with real chicken paws!). The folks at http://www.dogfoodadvisor.com say the Hearty Beef Stew contains beef broth, beef, dried egg product, chicken, pea protein, potatoes, carrots, and peas, as well as many vitamin supplements. If it looks and sounds better than McDonald’s, it probably is.
So what’s in a Big Mac? Two all-beef patties? All-beef? Isn’t that the meat that lives forever? I’m sure it’s great, now that the pink slime has been removed. Remember this picture from last April’s big news story?
And let’s not forget the bun, made of bleached white flour, with a dash of ammonium sulfate, ammonium chloride, and a whole lotta other junk I can’t pronounce. Plus four sesame seeds on top. Pair that with a square of rubbery processed American cheese and the Special Sauce (soybean oil, pickle relish, distilled vinegar, water, egg yolks, high fructose corn syrup, onion powder, mustard seed, salt, spices, propylene glycol alginate, sodium benzoate, mustard bran, sugar, garlic powder, vegetable protein, caramel color, extractives of paprika, soy lecithin, turmeric, calcium disodium EDTA), and you’re in business!
It’s enough to make you resort to a box of Triscuits!
The bonus is–your dog will eat Triscuits, too. But only the flavored kinds. Dogs are picky like that.
Hurray! Soon the flowers will be blooming, and the birds will be singing, and the butterflies flitting about, and Nature will get its pollination on. What’s that you say? It’s still freezing cold out?
Yesterday, after a second service sermon (oh, how my pastor would love that alliteration) and a meal of brisket, beans, and cole slaw, we took advantage of the 77 degree weather (which has now–as per the usual winter inconsistency–become 44 and will become 18 this evening–honestly, it’s like living in a BIPOLAR vortex) and took our two dogs to the nearby dog park.
While we were there, we noticed an enormous black monster truck of a dog. It didn’t run; it galloped. Furthermore, it lacked any clear features. It was in essence, a big black furry blur. At first, I thought it might be Obama’s Portuguese Water Dog, Sunny, but it was too large. After consulting with my canophilist friend, Lisa, we determined it was in fact a Jacqueline Kennedy Bouvier Des Flandres. And while neither the Kennedys nor the Obamas possessed such a breed, the Reagans did.
They named their dog Lucky, like “Get Lucky,” the song that won both album and record of the year last night at The Grammys. While we’re at it, I wonder how long they’ll continue to use those terms: album and record, especially when an entire generation has never touched an actual vinyl record. Or cassette. And they don’t play CDs. Anway, back to behemoth dog…This was what we saw:
He sniffed around.
He led the chase.
He tried to use his size to bully others, but he got back whatever he gave.
These dogs managed to get him balled up like a circus bear.
He made a grand exit when he finally departed, and a sense of loss filled the park. Five seconds later, the dogs began molesting each other again.
This is Tonto. He is not bright. Hence, the name. Whenever we take him to the dog park, the other dogs get confused and think he is a she. He is not. So he flees.
But he’s not just a victim. He sniffs other dogs as well.
Just one more for good measure.
At first, dog parks seem like a good idea.
But dog parks are really just a big humpfest.
Some dogs desperately need approval.
Some are full of trepidation.
And some just want to play with a beat-up yellow Frisbee.
I Don't Get It 