Here's the poop. Those wiseguys at King Pup take me for a spin every lunchtime and in return I agree to
cast a beady eye over the latest dog related developments and churn out a few words for the perusal of any dog enthusiasts in
earshot. It is I feel a quite satisfactory arrangement for the time being and one that I fully intend to maintain until such a time
as they've had enough of me, or I become blog-tired and decide to let sleeping blogs lie - whichever comes sooner.
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There’s a million and one different formulas and theories which purport to convert human years into dog years so to keep things simply I’m just going to go with the popular myth that the ratio is a straight 1 to 7. Many happy returns of the day Max, you wizened old 182 year old goat you.
Max, a terrier cross from Louisiana who almost certainly doesn’t have a Twitter account, was born in 1983, the same year undomesticated drug-cocktail crooner Amy Winehouse was born. I’ll leave it up to you to decide who’s achieved more with their life since then.
1983 was also the year that designer Xavier Roberts introduced the world to Cabbage Patch Kids - and by the twinkle in Max’s eye I’m guessing that he chewed his fair share of those ugly little gargoyles into oblivion. Good boy!
Max’s owner, Janelle Derouen, attributes his long life thusly: “He’s a very, very laid back dog. He likes to lie down, relax, nap, sleep a lot and keep life simple.” This is fantastic news. Looks like I’ve got another 130 years in me yet.
I gotta tell you, this kind of thing isn’t usually my bowl of gravy but I was very impressed to see Gin the Border Collie trip the light fantastic on the hit UK show Britain’s Got Talent.
I usually boycott any TV show featuring Simon Cowell after he decimated my emotional performance of Yoko Ono’s “I Felt Like Smashing My Face In A Clear Glass Wind” in the New York American Idol auditions last year, but I was sent this clip by a fan of my blog who complained that I wasn’t doing enough to promote the canine arts and I have to say I was bowled over by Gin’s remarkable fleetness of paw. She reminds me of a young Ginger Rogers.
Watching this video has been an inspiration to me and the upshot is that I’ve enrolled in a tap dancing class starting this September and have stopped clipping my nails in preparation.
Old folks love a wedding. And I suppose that once you reach a certain age it doesn’t really matter who’s getting married just so long as you’re invited.
All of which explains this frankly bizarre spectacle at The Riverside Care Center in McKeesport last week.
As I’ve already explained, there’s not much point in dogs getting married. It may feel right at the time but once the gravymoon’s over and the cold light of day sets in, it’s becomes quite apparent that neither party has any intention of restricting their butt-sniffing activities to just one butt for the remainder of their lives. Imagine being given one CD to listen to and told you can’t ever listen to anything else. It’s not going to work, is it?
Now I know these are old folks but the following quote from the article worried me a little:
Wedding guests “oohed” and “ahhed” at the lovely dresses, but some chuckled and nudged each other as they noted that the four bridesmaids were dogs.
Are they insinuating that some guests didn’t notice they were dogs? Heaven help us.
My, is it almost June 26 again already? Friday is of course Take Your Dog To Work Day, or as it’s more commonly known by employers: “National Dip In Productivity Day.” It is estimated that at least 6 million man hours are lost every year as Chocolate Labs chase Miniature Dachshunds around filing cabinets, Wheaten Terriers pee on sensitive data equipment, Pink-Nosed Pit Bulls interrupt important board meetings and Deer-Headed Chihuahuas menace bicycle messengers carrying merger proposals.
Having said that, some dogs go about their annual day at the office the same way they go about their day at home - asleep. But not until they’ve first checked every piece of office equipment to see if it smells of chicken. Once they’ve gotten that out the way they’re looking for the nearest box of packing chips and telling their owners to wake them at 5.
What really fascinates me however is the fact that not everyone works in an office. Can you imagine Friday’s rehearsal of the New York Philharmonic? How about deep sea divers? I sure am glad my owner isn’t a bomb disposal expert because it’s hard enough to stop my tail wagging at the best of times and I certainly couldn’t do it under that kind of pressure.
As for me, I’ll be spending the day at my owner’s office as usual…and I’ll make the most of it as I always do. Last year I took the opportunity to make 50 photocopies of my butt which I distributed at the dog run later that night. A fantastic way to meet new friends and publicize ones self.
Some dogs don’t even need a mirror to take issue with themselves. I’ve heard of bone envy but this is ridiculous. Or is there a more sinister explanation? I’m reminded of Peter Sellers’ role in the seminal movie Dr. Strangelove, in which he played an ex-Nazi physicist acting as scientific adviser in the President’s war room. Strangelove’s gloved hand would frequently begin to rise into a Nazi salute of its own accord, provoking a fight with his other, non-Nazi hand which would frantically attempt to stop it.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m susceptible to a little bone-related paranoia myself and if the marrow is still nice and soft then anyone who comes within 5 yards of me better have a good excuse (an even bigger, juicier bone for instance). But I draw the line at brawling with my own appendages. This dog is going to be soooo embarrassed when they play this video back to him later. And I think someone’s going to be fitted with a plastic cone before the week’s out……
Note to taxonomists: Californian dogs do not belong to the same species as New York Dogs. To me, getting wet means one thing and one thing only - a $100 grooming bill. If you should see me 30 yards off the coast of Imperial Beach standing knees-a-tremble on a slippery surfboard waiting for an ominous looking swell to launch me precariously back to shore, surrounded by sharks, jellyfish and god-knows-what then please taser me, put me in a crate and ship me back to Manhattan as I have quite obviously lost the ability to distinguish up from down.
The only board I’ve ever taken to the beach was of the snakes and ladders variety and the only wave I’ve ever ridden was the flashing collar craze of 2004. I don’t know who these Californian dogs think they’re kidding with this nonsense but it certainly isn’t me. Lassie will be spinning in her grave.
I literally felt my whiskers curl with outrage when I heard about this, the latest doohickey designed for no other purpose than to inflict unbridled terror upon the dog community.
If this is supposed to be an enhanced interrogation technique then I demand to know if Nancy Pelosi was briefed about it in 2002. Pictures speak louder than words - and the dog trapped in that nefarious appliance of torture has obviously no idea whatsoever who peed in his owners deck shoes sometime on the afternoon of May 11th, 2009.
Not that the sadistic barbarian in the foreground cares. Of course the lawyers have it all covered: it’s not an instrument of torture, it’s a dog washer. Of course it is! But fancy-schmancy legal jargon aside, is there really any difference?
The henious troglodyte who invented it, Frenchman Romain Jarry, had this to say about his automated dog-terrorizer:
‘It doesn’t take long to wash the dog - usually a few minutes. The longest part is the drying. The dogs don’t seem to get bored. They just sit there and they come out clean’
Stripped of their dignity, scrubbed of their confidence and scraped of their will to live. I’m so angry I can’t even think of any more cleaning related words that begin with ’s.’
Looks like Captain Rover’s going to clear that mountain by a whisker!
Calling all pets: put July 14th in your diaries for it’s a very special date. No, it’s not your annual bath. It marks the first flight made by the world’s first pet airline.
The Sun Sentinel is reporting that flights will begin between New York, Washington D.C., Chicago, Denver and Los Angeles - the most popular destinations for American pets according to extensive market research.
Gone are the traditional rows of uncomfortable foam seats - they’ve been ripped up and replaced with rows of uncomfortable pet crates. So basically it’s just the same as traveling in the cargo hold except the lighting’s good enough for Sudoku puzzles and there are flight attendents on hand to administer Pedigree Choice Cuts Beef & Barley and Friskies Sea Food Favorites on demand (or when the trolley’s wheeled out). Vegan and kosher meals on request.
From what I could ascertain from the Pet Airways website, they’re only accepting cat and dog passengers at present although since I wasn’t sure of this I decided to call them up with my voice disguised as a parrot to see if I could book a seat.
“I’m sorry but we don’t allow parrots on our planes,” was the reply. “They have a tendency to fly into the cabin and lecture the pilot on how to fly. Besides which if parrots start flying by plane they’ll lose their wings within a few generations and we don’t want to get blamed for that.”
Seems reasonable. I wonder if they accommodate tropical fish?
It’s being reported that Augie, a Swiss Mountain dog from North Carolina, doesn’t get out of his basket for less than $400.
The plush pooch mistook his belly for a bank and deposited a large stash of cash in it Thursday afternoon - dispensing with the formality of official deposit slips, sort codes and signatures in favor of the less traditional method of teeth, saliva and intestines. His owner, Kelley Davis, is yet to receive her monthly statement from the Bank of Augie but it is fully expected to be “Woof.”
Davis told us: “I did try my ATM card in Augie but he just chewed it up before I had a chance to enter my PIN. It was frustrating because Augie doesn’t have any counter service to speak of and besides, the only words he understands are “walkies,” “sit” and “Augie.”
However all was not lost as the Bank of Augie does in fact open three times a day and Kelley was able to scrape pieces of her savings from the sidewalk as the possessive pup gave up the loot at his own pace. One quick squirt of a hose later and the fragments were clean enough to exchange for non-digested replacements.
“I feel incredibly lucky,” the physical therapist told us, “that Augie didn’t go into liquidation before I got my money back.”
Quite. That could have been a very messy business indeed.
I’d just gotten my slippers on and poured myself a nice glass of vintage port this evening when I came across the news that the 25th annual Yukon Quest International Sled Dog Race has indeed commenced.
Of course I should have been taking part in this 1600km slog myself if it weren’t for the fact that I have flat paws, I’m not a Husky and quite frankly I have more sense than to allow myself to be strapped to a heavy sled behind 12 other dogs whose predilection for being shouted at is surpassed only by the volume of gas emitted from their posteriors on an hourly basis.
I can’t imagine what it’s like to run 1020 miles on snow, but if it’s anything like running across wet sand in pursuit of a Frisbee then I think I’ll pass. The only circumstances in which I permit myself to enjoy snow is if I’m assured there will be blankets and a hot fire available in less than an hours time. These Huskies obviously have more fur than sense.
