Brush off...

I'm fed up with hearing how my fur makes a mess around this house. It's simple people - if you don't like the way my discarded hair travels around the floor in clumps like desert tumble weeds, then you have no other choice but to brush me more often. It's not like I can go grab a brush and do it myself - hello - no thumbs! Besides, is any of this really a surprise here? Is it too much to ask that people do a tiny bit of basic animal care investigation before deciding on whether to adopt a pet? Or do they just imagine that the magical fur fairy will arrive to clean up the mess? Overall, it's not my fault people!

You would think that they'd just be thankful that I supply my own body covering in the first place. Would they prefer that I demanded Gap jeans or Quick Silver shirts every month or so instead like those two brats of theirs? You know - the ones who don't even supply any valuable service around here. That is unless the household can't function without the use of electrical devices, unmade beds, and clothes on the floor. But I guess that is what a birth entitlement gets you. Meanwhile, the only one who works 24/7  around here is required to do her job while being fed second class citizen food. Oh, and let's not forget the wonderful rest one gets from sleeping on the floor! You guys ever try to work after sleeping on the floor all night? And what's my reward for all of this? I get to field complaints day and night about my fur on the floor while receiving the lion's share of the old stink eye. 

It's times like these when I wish something would have come about from all those art submissions I sent in. I personally think that my turtle drawings looked just like the ones in the advertisements. Who knows, maybe I'd be working in an art gallery somewhere by now or even for a NY advertising agency? I guess it's just not in the cards for me. I'm just trapped here in Count Doofula's castle for the duration. To forever be tortured by their inconsideration and general buffoonery. Oh, but I do take solace in that their near constant fur complaints as proof that they will  be taking care of me in my senior years instead of the convenient euthanizing most dogs receive. Ah yes - life is grand around here. Life is indeed grand! Have a great weekend!

We should all have an Uncle Neil!

I haven't always lived solely in Burbank, CA. I was born here and do currently reside within her friendly confines, but I haven't always lived here exclusively. Likewise, I have not always experienced my unfortunate circumstance of living this common working class lifestyle. No, I was once given the opportunity to break away and live in another home as someone else's pet. It was a short-lived glorious experience as an ultra-pampered dog. I shall never forget those magical days or the kindly man responsible - Uncle Neil. Let me tell you the story.

 A couple of years back my owner - Captain 'C' Student - was contemplating moving our family closer to relatives on the east coast.  The question at that time was - where? His relatives resided in the northeast - Allentown, PA area, and his wife's family was located  in the southeast - Ft. Myers, FL. A decision was made that Florida would be the most logical location. Nothing against Pennsylvania's people or culture mind you - it was just a weather thing. Anyway, after some months of planning we eventually sold the house we had been living in, and rolled our misfit caravan eastward out of Los Angeles towards a new life. That was on a Saturday morning in June of 2005. 

Now the home where King Cranial Cramp and family planned to reside in was under the process of construction so we needed a place to stay until its completion. An offer came in from the wife's parents to live with them but there was one problem. They had an older cat whose health couldn't stand a 75lb dog (one who disliked cats) running around for six months. This brings us to Uncle Neil. Uncle Neil is the uncle of the owner's wife who at that time was enjoying a laid-back Florida lifestyle - free from 75 lb dogs. Being the decent guy that he is, he decided to give me a shot and then work things out from there if needed. It turned out to be one of the happiest times of my life!

Every day that man made all manner of human foods that he, unlike other humans I know, was willing to share such as; scrambled eggs,  lunch-meat sandwiches, chicken burritos and t-bone steaks. We also feasted on a never-ending supply of snack foods such as; potato chips, Bavarian pretzels, Jolly-time popcorn, chunks of pepper-jack cheese, and my favorite freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. It was the type of eating that I had only ever before experienced in my wildest dreams. 

In addition to all the wondrous food items, he also treated me to multiple daily walks. These were not your watered down, "let's get this over with" variety. No, these were strolls of pure freedom. Freedom to stop and smell whatever scents that caught my fancy. But that wasn't all, I was also allowed to pull him everywhere on the leash like a loon - if that was to my liking- without threat of retribution. Never was I told that my walks would be stopped or cut down in frequency or duration. I tell you - the man was the second coming of St, Francis of Assisi! 

To their credit, the old family did visit me on a daily basis - the little one probably missed me the most. For his part, the Duke of Doofus showed up every night to brush the fly-a-ways from my coat and vacuum Uncle Neil's floors. This was to make sure I wasn't being considered too much of a burden. Everyone was happy - that is until that blasted house was finished. It was then that I was forced to leave my personal Shangri-La  to rejoin the peasant lifestyle that I had hoped was only in my past. I thought we all had moved on. I was wrong - giving me yet another reason to dislike, "Sir IQ of 6" 

After a vet visit, we learned that I had gained 25 glorious pounds, which to this day, I refuse to apologize for. My time at Uncle Neil's will forever be looked back upon as my favorite and if ever there comes a day where my gate is left open -I'm hitting the freeway and following it back to his house. I have no doubt that he will be there waiting. Waiting to share a freshly made plate of bacon filled deviled eggs with a side of potato chips. And we will go for walks until neither of us can hold ourselves up anymore and watch ESPN until the cows come home. 

My hope is that each and every one of you gets a chance to experience your own Uncle Neil at some time or another in your lives. Unfortunately, I must now go - someone is at the door so it's time to get to work - chasing them off. I was once a pampered dog but now am not. At least I have my experiences to look back on to help me carry on. Have a happy weekend all!

Hail to the Chief...

The house switched over this morning from using the traditional bottled suntan lotion to that of the spray variety. It was decided that convenience should win out over any environmental concerns since it only takes a few seconds to spray up the kids in the morning - mainly the eight-year old. The teenager has the belief that he lives in a universe where sunburn is not existent so mistakenly figures that he can opt-out. But our story is not about the battle of making kids wear sunscreen or the dangers of sunburn. No, today's post is about the fallout from this new policy. For it is today that we lose one of the owner's most beloved make-believe characters -one that only appeared when bottled sunscreen was used, "Chief Fartsalot"

It started a few years back; the big ninny was working nights and thus watched the little guy - a preschooler at the time - while his wife worked. Sunny days would start  for Father and son with a trip to the park. In order to get the tot ready for this fun in the sun, a good measure of sunscreen was applied. One day, as the owner contemplated the best application technique, he decided it would be best to start with a few stripes across the boy's face and then to blend everything in evenly from there. So he marked the boy's cheeks and nose - three light horizontal streaks across the cheeks and one vertical stripe down his nose. 

Standing back, he looked over the boy - he got an idea. "Hold on" he said as he quickly bounded down the hallway leading to the bedrooms. In a few seconds he returned from his son's room - having retrieved the old Indian headband with feathers that his son had made earlier for a preschool thanksgiving play. The boy giggled in anticipation - having made the connection. As the owner placed the headband on his son - war drums started filling the room. The beats came in a series - softly at first - as if coming from a distance and included short pauses for dramatic effect. The beats grew stronger and faster and went something like this;   dum .......dum.......dum......dum  /   dum......dum.....dum... DUM /  dum ....dum...DUM...DUM / dum..DUM..DUM..DUM, the beats increased in size and pace until they were at their strongest and fastest DUM. DUM. DUM.DUM / DUM. DUM. DUM. DUM/ DUM. DUM. DUM.DUM! The toddler screeched with joy as he jumped around the room - showing off his version of a rain dance! It was then that the child let loose with the accidental blast of wind - thus sealing the name, "Chief Fartsalot" until this sad, sad, day.  

Unfortunately, the Chief's ending has been coming for some time, for the toddler has grown into a, "mature" eight-year old who prefers now to forgo the ceremony of becoming the Chief. So it is with heavy hearts today that we mourn not only the passing of the Chief, but also that special moment of time. We've been down this road before with the teenager. It's amazing how quickly time passes and it is hard to give up the moments that we enjoy so much. But we look forward to new experiences and comedic opportunities that life presents. And we shall await the coming of a new Chief someday. Maybe down the road in the form of a Grandson or Granddaughter? Have a great day folks and for one last time - Hail to the Chief!

"Oh, the humanity"

I'm emotionally and mentally traumatized! If not for the foul images that have seared  themselves into my brain - I'd be pleading for someone to press hot coals into my eyes! I wish my pupils could have vomited these unsavory visions before having permeated the halls of my memory, but alas I've no sight gag reflex. If only there had been some form of warning - I might have been able to save my poor brain from utter ruin. Unfortunately, I was at the disadvantage, no one could have imagined this ghastliness. No horror movie or book has ever seen the likes of what I've witnessed and shall unfortunately remember for the rest of my days and sleepless nights. Let me tell you my pain.

I was outside most of the morning enjoying the sunshine when it occurred to me that my manservant, "Mr Belve-doof" had not seen fit to come and let me back into the house. It had been a beautiful morning here in Burbank - high 70s - so I didn't mind having extra time to bask myself in the glorious morning sunshine. After standing at the backdoor for what seemed about fifteen minutes without any hide or hair of help, I proceeded to the back bedroom sliding-glass door to investigate. As I rounded the corner, I heard the unmistakable sound of Neil Diamond singing, "Sweet Caroline" emanating from the house. Unfortunately, the vision I beheld was neither sweet nor Caroline. 

I gasped in shear horror as this despicable sight started attacking my corneas - the owner - wearing only a pair of checkered XL boxer shorts - running on the treadmill! Remember, we're not talking Brad Pitt here folks. Try thinking more on the lines of James Gandolfini from, "The Sopranos" A two-hundred plus pound individual - all muffin topped out - running - gasping between words - and all the while, the jiggle factory operates at full capacity. For further enhancement of this picture, imagine also, milky - I haven't seen the sun since 1989 - legs moving in time while black ankle and knee braces hold on for dear life under extreme duress! Now you know my pain. Sorry if I offend but I just could't keep this bottled up for fear of mental exhaustion. I'm off now to my dog hole to lie down and attempt to recuperate from this ungodly event. Try to have a good day.

I've been dreading this letter...

I'm reminded today that my ten-year reunion is coming up this fall. It is hard to believe that ten years has passed since my graduation from Verdugo Hills Canine Academy! Man, I hated every minute of  my time spent at that lousy school! Now the question is... do I want to attend? One part of me thinks that I should drop a few pounds, get a new collar and dazzle them with how fabulous I look for my age. The other wants to grab all those bastards by their lousy scruffs and dispense some justice! Oh how I loathed all of those show-offs and their constant calls for attention! "Look at me... look how well I sit." Or, "Look at me... I know how to give my paw." And my personal favorite, "Look at me... I don't pull on the leash when I walk!" Those creatures made my time there a living hell!  And if it wasn't bad enough being forced to do their little sadomasochistic tricks in school, the big half-wit insisted that we practice all week outside of the class. I can still remember walking back and forth down the street - all the while I had to stay to the left side and try and anticipate when the doofus was going to stop or turn around. I tell you - I still hold a grudge about all that stuff he put me thru since it was all for his benefit! What was in it for me? And why was I not good enough the way I was to begin with? I listened to him some of the time. What else did he want? What was the point?  Really -did I do anything with that stupid certificate anyway? It's just sitting in a box somewhere collecting dust! And let's not forget all those great students there that I had to put up with in order to get that stinking piece of paper.

The one who really ticked me off was the little Bichon Frise bitch, "Vuitton" She was the one who was always sashaying around each week with a different jeweled collar around her neck from her stupid collection. She thought she was all that! It was pathetic watching all the male dogs always trying to sniff that skank. And their male owners were just as bad - ogling her sparsely-clad human owner  who wore a different, "Von-Dutch" trucker hat each week. Oh, the damage I wanted to inflict on those two! Vuitton was also the one who had me upset for a whole week after calling me a, "common working dog" in front of, "Sos" the Alaskan malamute. She knew we were talking about meeting up at the dog park so she went and turned him against me. Oh, how I would love to get her back! She wasn't the only one I despised - there were others.

Vuitton was closely matched by, "Maria" the shaky little Chihuahua bitch who claimed to be from Spain - yeah right! She too was acting like class was some sort of mixer and always tried her best to show me up.  She actually had the nerve once to say I was big and clumsy like my owner! I responded by calling her lunchmeat and then proceeded to try and show her why. Needless to say - I had major points deducted that day for my conduct. To make matters worse, when we got home, the goofball owner complained to his wife that he was embarrassed by my behavior. He didn't even try to stick up for me - even though he heard what that dog said! It was all enough to make me want to drop out. Unfortunately, the dope kept dragging me back week after week. 

I was never so glad as when I heard my name called on Graduation Day! I remember thinking " Thank God this is over!" And, " I never have to see these mongrels again!" I was free - at least until I received the reunion letter in the mail slot today. Of course it was the guy wearing the blue shorts and carrying the leather pouch who would be the one leaving it for me. I tell you, he just lives to taunt me! Everyday I bark for him to get the hell out of here and everyday he just keeps coming back anyway! 

So what do I do now? My first thought was to eat the letter - preventing the owner from discovering it and getting any bright ideas. Unfortunately, I'll have to shoot that one down because of my inability to digest paper and the owner's concern regarding anomalies in my stool. I'm leaning in the direction of burying it in the back yard. This would add another level of protection since the sprinkler's water would surely ruin any traces the owner otherwise might find. Of course it will be odd depending on one of my mortal enemies, "the sprinkler" to help me out of this mess. There's gotta be a book in here somewhere. Oh well, I digress. Ok, it's decided then -burying the letter in the backyard is the way to go. Well I'm off. Have a great day! 

I need to put a damper on this.

I just can't stand when someone is happier than me - for any reason. All day long the big simpleton has been prancing about the house - all jolly and sing-songy because it's his birthday. What the heck does he have to be joyous about? First of all, he's turning 40 and hasn't accomplished much in his life- other than weight gain. Next, he's still out of work and there doesn't appear to be any prospects on the horizon. Last but not least is he's slowly going bald. Yep, he's got the makings of a nice horseshoe on top of that huge melon he tries to pass off as a human head - attractive! I hear that the human ladies just can't get enough of those horseshoes these days.

 

Lucky for him - he set the trap and got his female years ago when he was thinner with a full head of hair. Otherwise, all he would have these days would be late night, "Girls Gone Wild" videos. Come to think of it, is there some kind of physical connection between the young human female's tongue and their shirts? Why is it that when they lifts their shirts  - their tongues automatically come out? ... Oh well, I guess it's like us dogs when you scratch a certain area on our stomachs and then one of our paws starts to move.  Ok, I better go now - I hear him coming closer  - singing that annoying happy birthday song again. Maybe I should go chew on the corner of the television - or one of his old baseballs in the plastic cases. That would snap him back to reality. Have a good day folks! 

Special Sunday Post... don't expect these every week.

Saturday night is over and - what a relief! What had the makings of a potential tragedy, thankfully turned out to be nothing after all. You see, La Jefe Estupido and his wife allowed their eight-year old boy to have a friend sleepover last night. Of course, nobody thought enough to consult me to see if I had any concerns. I guess we can add another link to that long chain of disrespect given to this security expert! Why am I even here? Have you ever seen the human President's Secret Service get ignored when plans are made?  Why should this case be any different?

I guess they've forgotten that I've devised a strict set of protocols that need to be met before any individual or groups are allowed onto the family compound. First of all, there is a fifty-page questionnaire used to measure family compatibility and visitor sanity. It includes such questions as, "Are you, or have you ever been a member of  the Communist Party?"  And, "On a scale of 1-10, how much do you like dogs?" All these questions need to be passed with a minimum 90% grade in order for candidates to be proceed to the next round. Next, prospects are administered the Wonderlic IQ test used by NFL teams leading up to the NFL Draft. Future visitors must score close to the genius category in order to advance to the last and most grueling level. Coming down the stretch, successful candidates are subjected to a comprehensive series of  background checks  - which include interviews with family, friends, employers, and a  law enforcement search covering the past twenty-five years. Oh, and we also check college transcripts here as well. While the interviews are being administered, potential visitors are kept under strict video surveillance 24/7 and  are required to wear tracking bracelets. 

If a candidate makes it thru my vetting process, he or she is upgraded to the level of temporary guest. They are then reserved a specific date to be used for visitation purposes. If for any reason they cannot fulfill this visitation date, the process starts over from the very beginning. Tuff system? You bet - but necessary in this crazy day and age. Of course my family has decided to bypass my system potentially putting our family into the devious hands of subsequent terrorists. 

 That could have been the case last night with the eight-year old visitor but luckily for all of us, I am trained to keep a vigilant eye - and basic animal instincts honed, for dangerous, unscrupulous characters. Thankfully, my fears quickly subsided when this child entered our home and rubbed my ears... leading to my conclusion that he was not evil after all. Of course had I not been here, who knows what might have happened? Maybe my mere presence turned this child to the good side? Who knows, he may have been scared straight by my fearsome tail wagging or something of the sort but I guess we'll never know. Overall - the family's decisions come as no surprise to me anymore. Why? Because the lunatics are running the asylum! I'll talk to you guys later - I'm disgusted!