King Pup's NYC Blog Dog

I’m staying out of this election. Mostly, in light of the fact that the canine vote is not yet forthcoming. We can serve our country in the military and the police force it seems, but we’re not trusted to make a rational decision when it comes to deciding who’s best to run the country (the late Lassie’s public endorsement of Gerald Ford in 1976 didn’t exactly help matters). I’ve tried throwing myself in front of one of those horse-drawn carriages in Central Park in protest on many occasions, but my NYC dog walker from King Pup has lightening reflexes and he pulls me back onto the sidewalk every time.

However, I am interested to note that presidential hopeful Barak Obama has promised to furnish the White House with one governmental dog should he win - and the American Kennel Club held a vote to decide what breed of dog it should be.

Surprise surprise, they chose a poodle. It seems that like the rest of the election, decisions are being made on the basis of style, not substance - another nail in the coffin of American democracy. Sure, poodles may be stately, graceful creatures with an impressive canter and an unmatched gait - and sure, they don’t shed a lot of hair which is good news for the White House carpets which are apparently only just recovering from Dwight Eisenhower’s exuviating tenure.

But folks, I ask you this. When the presidential phone rings at 3am, what kind of dog do you want barking in the background when it’s answered?

Filed under: Celebrity Pups by Bob
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After declining their offer (through my lawyers) to make me Milk-Bone SpokesDog of 2008 and plaster my comely countenance upon red biscuit boxes the length and breadth of the nation, it seems the preeminent dog treat company has decided to throw caution to the wind and appeal to the wider ruck in the slim hope of finding a muzzle as stately as mine with which to galvanize the hopes and dreams of the American public.

All across the country, dogs are pouring into auditions to undergo a series of grueling whisker measurements, snout appraisals and ear inspections in order to root out the privileged pup whose features bear the most resemblance to those of yours truly. The organizers, understandably, have decided to wrap the proceedings around a charade in which owners are deluded into believing that it’s the “bond” they have with their dog which clinches the deal.

But what can the lucky winner expect after signing the contract? Apart from enjoying the new cars, jet skis and designer watches their owners are likely to buy them with the $100,000 prize money, the new Milk-Bone dog will have to adjust to their new found celebrity dog status - which means they can never lead a normal life again.

Forget about pooping in public - to be photographed crouching outside Starbucks with knees-a-tremble is to kiss goodbye to your career (just ask Buck from TV’s Married With Children). No, the prominent pooch is condemned to a life of ducking between two parked cars on the shaded side of the street whenever they get the urge to lay a cable.

And they can forget about the joys of indiscriminate butt-sniffing in the dog park - the poor pooch will be required to sign a code of conduct which prohibits them from whiffing more than 30 derrieres in a week.

Which is, ultimately, why I said “no”.

Filed under: Celebrity Pups, Deluded Humans by Bob
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An experimental attempt to expose dogs to culture in Bethlehem, PA, is in serious doubt after an unnamed five month old puppy left a trail of hurt feelings and bruised artistic sensitivities on the town’s Main Street today.

The pernicious pup was seen to ramble cockily through the sidewalk displays of local artisans, heaping scorn upon what one distraught beret wearing, goatee-bearded brush-pusher called his ‘raison d’etre’ before collapsing theatrically in a heap and tearfully pounding the sidewalk with his fists.

“He called my piece ‘whimsical’ and ‘contrived’”, sobbed Peregrine Whittlestaff, a local sculptor and part-time basket weaver - seemingly unaware that art can be one or the other, but not both. “He has this wheezy laugh, like Mutley off of ‘Catch the Pigeon’ - and to be honest with you I don’t know where I’m going to go from here. I think there’s going to be a lot of personal reassessment behind closed doors in Bethlehem tonight.”

Filed under: Attaboy, Deluded Humans by Bob
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Attaboy! As reported in today’s LA Times, Ruby the bulldog (or is it Bean?) took a grand total of “about two seconds” to figure out that there’s a third dimension - up.  Most bulldogs, as their owners will tell you, have trouble coming to terms with the first two, being quite happy to blow raspberries at Einstein by planting themselves firmly in a point of singularity - usually on the sidewalk right outside of Dunkin Donuts, or on the crosswalk just as the lights are about to change.

So this is good! Because if bulldogs need anything, it’s a new place to sleep.

Filed under: Attaboy, Dog Bravery by Bob
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For the most part, dogs don’t get married. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that we have anything against the institution itself - it’s just that there’s about as much point in two dogs getting married as there is in taping two pebbles together.

For humans, love is a temporary insanity that’s curable by marriage, or so the saying goes. For us dogs, love is a temporary insanity which is curable by a bucket of cold water (or a rolling tennis ball). So I don’t hold out much hope for the canine unions so pointlessly forged in this mass dog marriage in New Delhi, India, in which 500 dogs are to be enjoined in holy matrimony whether they like it or not - against their own wishes and their owner’s better judgment.

Says V K Gupta, a businessman and pug owner whose snub-nosed pooch is poised to be part of the day’s cattle market:

“For months I had been looking for ways to give my dog a social life”

Mr Gupta. All dogs need for a good social life is a nice smelling butt and a tail that wags properly, not frilly lace and Pedigree Choice Cuts flavored wedding cake (although I’ll take a slice if one’s going spare). This whole shenanigans is bound to end in a bunch of messy divorces…and a messy carpet if I’m right about that cake.

Filed under: Harebrained Humans, Wackos by Bob
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This is Norman. A collie cross from Roden, England. Norman likes to pick things up in his mouth, carry them around for a while and then pulverize them. Like most loyal dogs, he’s also given to following his owner around wherever she goes.

Are you following? Now imagine that Norman follows his owner to the neighborhood recycling bank one day. He sees a plastic bottle in the street on the way there. Thinking, “hey, that looks like it could fit in my mouth,” Norman picks it up and carries it with him. When they arrive, he drops it. Stop me when you think I’m describing something out of the ordinary. Pretty mundane stuff, right?

Tell that to owner Rhea Parsons, who’s convinced that Norman is the canine answer to Al Gore. Stunned to the core by Norman’s initial display of everyday doggy behavior, she decided to give Norman an airtight test of his premeditated environmental tendencies:

Thinking it may have been a one-off, on Rhea’s next trip she put a milk bottle on the floor to see what he would do.

“I thought it was brilliant when he picked it up in his mouth, crushed it, as everyone is asked to do, and took it to the recycling bank,” she said.

Well grate me finely and sprinkle me over mashed potatoes! A dog picks something up and crushes it in his mouth? Next you’ll be telling me he does the same thing with tennis balls and socks — does he recycle those too?

Don’t get me wrong - we dogs care about the environment. That’s why you won’t see us driving or using toilet paper. But we’re also of the general belief that if humans use plastic bottles, then humans can recycle them. Dogs don’t recycle, because we don’t need to. Our carbon pawprints are some of the smallest on the planet. Now, some dogs are taken to “recycling” their “trash” (usually in the most inappropriate situations) - but we don’t talk about them in polite company.

Filed under: Deluded Humans, Harebrained Humans by Bob
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This is what it’s come to. Twenty years ago, the hoop in this picture would have been on fire. The nearest humans would have been 50ft away in the stands cheering in stunned amazement upon witnessing yet another spectacular act of unfathomable canine courageousness. There would have been no harnesses, no treats — none of the pathetic and patronizing chicanery seen in this photograph. Alas, times have changed since the golden eras of Lassie, Rebel and Freeway, as illustrated by the “Dog Days Peach and Sunflower Festival” in Bluemont, Virginia last weekend.

Proceedings have obviously been commandeered by the “yay brigade”, for whom it’s not the winning that counts…just the “taking part”. What else could explain this pitiful parade of events:

“The venues for the activities included five wooded mazes, a peach orchard, a pond and an agility course consisting of colorful tunnels, poles striped like candy canes and a tire jump.”

From flaming tires and piranha pools to peach orchards and poles striped like candy canes. Where’s the adventure, the peril, the risk? Lassie will be spinning in her grave.

Filed under: From Dogs To Mice, Harebrained Humans, Lassie Grave Spinning by Bob
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Believe it or not, this isn’t a picture of two dogs. Look more closely (use your browser’s zoom function if you have to) - they’re actually humans wearing dog fur sweaters.

That’s right. Beth and Brian Willis from Newcastle Upon Tyne, England, spun these ghoulish garments after spending years collecting the hairs of their beloved pets from brushes and carpets.

Says Brian:

“They are extremely warm and pretty much waterproof. I’ve always got a sweat on by the time I get from the bus to the shops.”

See? That’s where you’re going wrong. Dogs don’t sweat — they pant. Did you try panting, pal? Probably not. But here’s the other thing. There is no way you’d get enough dog hair out of a carpet to make a sweater like that. Then it occurred to me….look at the picture of the human on the right. Specifically, his head. Are you sure they were all dog hairs, Brian? Hmmm.

Filed under: Harebrained Humans, Wackos by Bob
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Now don’t get me wrong, I think bringing dogs into hospitals to cheer up sick patients is an excellent idea — so put your paws together for Zoya, Penny, Crackerjax and Romeo, the latest additions to the thiriving pet therapy scene at Basset Hospital, Utica.

However, a couple of things don’t sit right with me.

1. How come it’s OK for dogs to skip around the sterile medical environment of a hospital and nobody bats an eyelid, yet if I so much as slip a whisker over the threshold of Subway Sandwiches I get chased straight out by a guy with a broom?
2. When was the last time you heard of a scheme to get humans to make therapeutic visits to sick animals at the vet’s office?

This last point is worth dwelling on. When I was recovering after my enforced emasculation procedure a couple of years ago, they had me stuck in a crate with a dusty old blanket that smelled of Dachshunds and lighting so dim I could hardly see my Sudoku puzzles. Let me tell you, I felt pretty dysphoric — but where was my human therapy volunteer? A brisk tickle under the chin, a bit of baby talk and a Pup-Peroni would have done wonders for my post-spayal depression, alas none was forthcoming.

I tell ya, I could not wait to get back into the swing of things with my King Pup dog walker. Those heroes really know how to lift a neutered dog’s spirits.

Filed under: Dog Health by Bob
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If you could pin a medal to a dog (which you can’t) then these guys would probably have lots of medals pinned to them. There was once a time when dog heroism meant Lassie barking at a farmer to tell him some snot-nosed kid was stuck down a hole — well move over Lassie, the bar’s been raised (sorry sweet pea).

One day they’re poking around trashcans and worrying the local cats for fun — the next they’re whisked off the streets to join in the fight against Maoist rebels in India. These former urchins risk their lives every day to sniff out bombs and bark at baddies, and I commend them for it. I’d join their ranks myself but they’d never accept me…flat paws and bad eyesight — a disasterous combination around anything explosive.

Filed under: Attaboy, Dog Bravery by Bob
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