Pancake City

This cracked me up.

Mickey, one of the dogs I walk, found a dead squirrel today and picked it up. The wiry tail hung out of his mouse and whipped back and forth like a half-eaten strand of spaghetti.

Mickey was very proud of himself. He walked close to me to show off his prize. My one attempt to dislodge it from his mouth, poking the dead squirrel with a four-foot stick, only gained me an annoyed look.

He carried it all the way home, when he unceremoniously dropped it on the newly vacuumed carpet. I locked him in a room while I threw it away. Before we got home, though, we met a manically friendly 40ish year-old woman who was jogging towards us. This is the verbatim conversation:

LADY: “Oh, look at you! You are such a sweet dog! Yes, you are! Yes, you–OH GOD.”
ME: “Yup.”

I found a link to a Vancouver travel site in the “Failed Referrers” section of my web page stats. It’s a list of broken links that people are trying to reach, mostly missing photos that didn’t get transferred when I switched web hosts.

A few dozen people have been unsuccessfully trying to find a photo that used to be on my web site. I clicked the link to see what Vancouver wanted from Pancake City.

Surprise #1: The link, to a message board discussion, had nothing to do with travel or Vancouver. It was a long, angry argument on which was better, cats or dogs.

Surprise #2: It was absolutely hilarious.

I searched Google’s cache to see the photo they were trying to find. It was of a cat holding a sniper rifle while perched in a window sill.

I was going to post snippets of the discussion, but the first half-page is so funny that you have to read the whole thing.

“Get back to the thread DO YOU LIKE CATS OR DOGS!!!!”

Getting bit in the balls can really change one’s outlook on life.

Boomer, a stupid mutt that I walk, has been getting aggressive with me recently when his owner was in the house. He tore at my jacket and made a small rip in my jeans once. His owner brought over someone to work with him on Monday, and I came over to help them out.

The person his owner brought over, Diane I Don’t Know Shit About Dogs, didn’t have a good grip on the leash when she brought Boomer near me to desensitize him. He bit me on my ankle, thigh, and grazed my Voldemorts (You Know Where).

My ball sac quickly went to turtle mode, but it was too late at that point. Ouch.

The experience changed my outlook of my weekend. Up to that point, I had a great weekend:

• Friday: hung out with friends at a bar.
• Saturday: Spent time with my sisters and eat an amazing Iranian meal my Mom made for a dinner party.
• Sunday: Relaxed, read an interesting book (The Victorian Internet).
• Monday: Played with two Jack Russell’s that I adore, got bit in the balls.

Afterwards, this is how I viewed my weekend:

• Friday: Didn’t get bit in the balls.
• Saturday: Didn’t get bit in the balls.
• Sunday: Still didn’t get bit in the balls.
• Monday: Got bit in the balls.

If I had won the lottery on Friday, and someone asked me, “How was my weekend?” I’d say it was a wash.

I’ve had trouble falling asleep this week. I still have a lot of fear and anger about the event. The physical pain was minor, but it was traumatic, and I’m still dealing with it. Also, my balls itch.

You know what’s the worst? The next day, someone at the dog care company I worked for who knew about the visit but not the details emailed me to see how it went. She asked, “How was the dog psychic?”

What? Dog psychic? Are you kidding me? The person wasn’t a dog trainer, but a dog psychic? I remembered a comment the owner made a few days ago about “the dog psychic coming by” this weekend, but I thought she was using a cutesy way to say “animal behaviorist,” not “incompetent loon”. My bad.

I do have some responsibility to ask a person’s qualifications before putting myself in a potentially dangerous situation. But is it that absurd to expect someone whose career is to work with dogs to master THE MOST BASIC RULE OF DOG TRAINING: don’t put someone, especially a stranger, in a situation where he or she can get bitten.

Boomer was lunging at me the whole time. You think her psychic powers would have tipped her off that the dog was in heat-seeking crotch mode.

More than anything, that’s what makes me angry about this situation. The dog was just being a dog, but the “professional” should have known better. On my side, I need to stop worrying about appearing rude or untrusting in situations that affect my health, whether it’s a dog trainer or a doctor.

I read a blurb in Psychology Today that 90% of dogs have a moment of senility by the time they are seven. How does a creature that chases its own tail, eats poop, and says hi by sniffing each other’s butts have a moment of senility?

Still browsing craigslist for potential rooms. Nothing too interesting since my last post, although I noticed that the hybrid-wolf guy now has a dog. I’m half-tempted to see the house, just so I can meet the pet and have this conversation:

ME: “Your dog looks different from most dogs. This is going to sound weird, but is there any way that he is half-wolf?”
RENTER: “Yes! That’s amazing. How did you know?
ME: “I have a special connection with ‘dogs’.”
RENTER: “Why did you make the air quote sign when you said ‘dogs’?”
ME: “I’M ON TO YOU, WOLF BOY!”

“The Washington D.C. area is under a heat advisory until 8:00 p.m. today. Sensitive groups, such as the elderly and children, should remain indoors as much as possible. Temperatures will be in the upper 90s, near 100. Oh, screw it. It’s going to be 100. I want some ice cream.”

Does anyone reading the blog have experience communicating with animals? I’m having trouble communicating with two Jack Russell terriers that I walk. What’s dog speak for, “100 DEGREES IS NOT OPTIMAL SQUIRREL-CHASING CONDITIONS, YOU LOONY MUTTS.” Just wondering.

WORK DOG: “Hello. This is Doginos.”
HUNGRY DOG: “Hi. I’d like to order a crumpled-up tissue.”
WORK DOG: “Any toppings?”
HUNGRY DOG: “Yeah. Ants, chicken bones, and…hmm, how bout extra gum?”
WORK DOG: “That it?”
HUNGRY DOG: “That’s it.”
WORK DOG: “Okay. Your total is $5.97, and your order will be ready in ruffly 15 minutes. How would you like to pay for it?”
HUNGRY DOG: “My master’s credit card, of course.”
WORK DOG: “What’s the number?”
HUNGRY DOG: “Um….I can’t read. Can I just chew it for a few minutes?”
WORK DOG: “That’ll work. You can pick up your tissue by the tipped-over trashcan on the corner of Elm and Piedmont.”
HUNGRY DOG: “Excellent. I’ll drag my owner over there as soon as possible. Thanks.”

Have you ever overheard a person’s name that is so weird that you feel compelled to turn around and look at the person, as if to confirm the name belongs to a human and not, for example, a turtle, or a dog?

“Hey, Pixel, wait up!” (Pixel?)

Well, that’s how I felt yesterday when I overheard a dog owner talk to his dog, Bob.

I love dogs, but even I have standards. (thanks for the link, Addi)

(Sophie is a Golden Retriever who carries a red Kong in her mouth during most of our walk)

[note 1]
Sophie has ADDD–Attention Deficit Dog Disorder. She’s like, “I love my Kong, I love my Kong, I love my Kong…ooh, a grease stain!” I’d think about getting her a prescription of Ruffalin. Two out of five psychiatrists recommend it. That’s almost 50%!

[note 2]
I like the note I wrote today a lot. But since it won’t stick to the fridge, I put it in the fridge. It’s going to be a nationwide trend. Cousins on the outside, children next to the eggs. Not that I’m your child. Or your cousin. But I’m kind of like family. Like a strang-child, or a half-cousin.

Man, I gotta put this one in the fridge too. Or as the kids say nowadays, “Fridge it up!”

[note 3] (on counter)
Notes are in the fridge!

(Sophie and Brewster are food-obsessed Golden Retrievers)

Day 1

You know how couples that are together a long time supposedly look like each other after a while?

That is going to happen to Sophie and Brewster. In a few years, they’re going to be Sophster and Brewie. Mark my words! With a highlighter. And put them on the fridge. They’re good words. Especially “goober”. Me likey the goober. When I get a dog, I’m naming him Goober. Or Francice. No, that’s stupid. Definitely Francine.

Day 2

Um, why isn’t my note on the fridge? I hate to do this, but if you don’t put my note on the fridge, I WILL EAT SOPHIE. I swear. I get very hungry during the day, and she looks dee-lich-us.

It’s not like you have anything else on your fridge. It’s a barren hearth of emptiness. Spice it up! With one of my notes.

P.S. Brewster had two bowls of food today.

Day 3

Okay. I see how it is. I’m reclaiming my notes and putting them on MY fridge. Also, I DID eat Sophie, but she tasted terrible, so I spit her out. Maybe if she stopped eating tissues, we wouldn’t have that problem.

The next day, they apologized for not putting my notes on the fridge and made a lame excuse that magnets don’t stick to their refrigerator. Really? Because it doesn’t look plastic. Hmmph.

My nomination for the “Pet of the Month” at the dog walking business I work for:

Nugget and Cubby are two Jack Russell terriers that seem to never, ever, get tired. When we get back from a walk, a.k.a. “Squirrel Chasing Festival 2005″ they lap up a bit of water and then run back to the door, hoping I’ll have a brain aneurism and take them back outside (we’re 0 for 323, but they keep trying).

They make me laugh almost every day. When I come in, sometimes Nugget will drag out the “Welcoming Blanket” from her cage. Cubby, a few years younger than Nugget and unfamiliar with some higher forms of nomenclature, will misinterpret the Welcoming Blanket as the “War Blanket” and begin tugging it. Nugget then drops the name Welcoming Blanket and rechristens it “The Bestest, Most Important Blanket in the Whole Wide World, Which Must Be Kept from Cubby at all Costs”. So they then fight each other for Super Blanket until I step in, when in a coincidental fit of dual amnesia, they both flip over for belly rubs.

I wrote this poem today while walking Mickey, a squirrrel-obsessed pooch.

Squirrels, squirrels, everywhere
Jumping through the air
Seemingly without a care
Torturing poor Mickey
Playing with him they dare
Soon, he will catch them all
Snag them one by one
It will be fun
To see them run
Futilely to their lairs
Then they will be gone
And Mickey will stand
Over their corpses and bloody hair
Happy and unaware
Seemingly without a care

* During one of my walks, a woman with a worried look on her face stopped her car and rolled down her window. “Have you seen two dogs with leashes running around?”

“No,” I said, “but maybe if you loved them, they wouldn’t have run away.”

* I got annoyed at one of the dogs I was walking and called him a mutt. He was hurt. I tried apologizing. “I’m sorry. It was in the heat of the moment. I know you’re not a mutt, Lancelot. Do you want a treat? Who wants a treat? Who wants a treat?”

He didn’t want a treat. He was still mad at me, until this happened: 15 seconds passed. Dogs have horrible memories. Stupid mutts.