From the Department of Ewww

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."

Dogs vs. Cats

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!!!!"

Ouch

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.

Doggy Senility

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?

Wolf Turned Into Dog

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!"

Today's Weather Report

"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.

How Dogs Find Disgusting Things To Eat

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.”

Names

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.

Doggie Bag

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

Notes to a Dog Walking Client, #53

(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!

Notes I Left One of My Dog Walking Clients

(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.

Cause I have Nothing Else To Write About

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.

Adventures in Dog Walking...OF THE MIND!!!

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

Adventures in Dog Walking

* 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.

Adventures in Dog Walking

While I was walking a dog, a stranger walked towards me and bellowed, "Hey, buddy! How’s it going?"

I whispered to Samson, the dog, "Start growling" as I sized him up. His shirt was tucked into his pants, so I put him on for only 5% homeless. Low probability also for asking for directions: 15%. When most people ask for directions, they put the greeting and request in the same sentence. If they’re lost, they’re also late and don’t have time for chit-chat.

Although he may have been a crazy person as he looked like he was wearing mascara, my gut told me he was selling something. But what? Religion? Magazines? Political cause? The overly-friendly greeting was plausible for all three possibilities, but I needed more information to determine whether he was scary happy (religion), desperate happy (magazines), or fake happy (political cause).

He said something, but I didn’t hear him because I was trying to figure out what type of weirdo he was. Samson, who I trained to have a healthy suspicion of people not carrying treats, began barking. He halted his approach and laughed.

"I like dogs, but he doesn’t look too friendly today."

"That’s right," I said, as I stared him down. I thought about asking if he had a napkin to wipe the upcoming foam from Samson’s mouth, but felt I didn’t need to go there yet.

"We finally got a break from this heat, huh?" he said.

I reviewed my response for possible openings to other avenues of conversation before uttering it: "Yup." I felt a twang of guilt for being unfriendly, but if potential crazy man thought I was going to show any weakness, he could remove the “potential” from his name.

We had a minute of uncomfortable chit-chat when I had was passes for an epiphany nowadays: "Hey, this guy is the bare-bones friendly!" I let my guard down and thought of ways to engage him in conversation. "Do you live around here? Do you have any pets? Do you..."

"Well, see ya later buddy!"

What? Talk about being hasty. He only gave me a minute to figure out it was safe to interact with. Perhaps that’s an eternity in a place like Alabama, but in the crime-ridden streets of Northern Virginia, that’s barely enough time to take your hand off your pistol.

If you’re waiting for a pithy conclusion that sums up a revelation about life or myself that this experience taught me, you’ll have to go somewhere else. And that somewhere else is right after this sentence. What I learned from my interaction from fake crazy man is...

I’m not serious, of course. I haven’t learned anything from life yet, and I’m not going to ruin the streak now.

Welcome

Sixty-two percent of dog owners have a "Wipe Your Paws" welcome mat. Sixty-two percent! Where's the originality? If I owned a dog, two things would be certain.

One, I would get a toy dog, name it Precious, and carry it around on a velvet pillow just to piss people off.

Two, my welcome mat would read, "Wipe Your Damn Paws Already, You Stupid Mutt. I Wash You, Feed You, Pick Up Your Shit, and Give You a Treats Even When You Don't Do Anything Special, Which Is Like All the Time. The Least You Could Do Is Wipe Your Stinky, Muddy Feet, For Christ's Sake."

It would probably be two welcome mats, depending on how small the printer could make the font. But that's a minor detail.

Loyalty

I took off last Friday. A sub walked my dogs. I was dismayed to enter my client's house yesterday and read this note that the sub left: "Mickey is such a wonderful dog! He ran up to see me when I walked in and licked my face!"

What? I walk that stinking pooch every day for six months, take one measly day off, and already he moves on to another walker? Man's best friend, my ass.

Another one of my dogs, a old beagle named Noel, knew how to keep it real. Her owner emailed me saying that she tried to bite the sub when he tried to pet her. As Martin Lawrence said in every single one of his movies, 73% episodes of "Martin", and his gripping Broadway show where he played a Tourette's patient: "That's what I'm talking about".

If my dogs don't take a finger off a stranger who walks them, then they don't really love me. And if Mickey thinks he's getting any more treats while "Kristi" can still grasp a coffee cup with ease, he's crazy as a monkey. And not party crazy, like a monkey on roller skates rolling in and out of the room. Real crazy, like putting a candle in its poo and calling it Ethel.

Outdoor Cat

As a dog walker, the concept of an outdoor cat amuses me.

CAT OWNER1: "Friskers is an indoor cat. He loves sitting on his post and staring out the window."
CAT OWNER1: "Not Mittens. Mittens is an outdoor cat. She'll roam around outside all day, but she always comes home for dinner."

Ha! In the dog world, there are no outdoor dogs. There are indoor dogs, and dogs that escaped. A dog is like a lifer in the state penitentiary who has shown exemplary behavior for the past 20 years until the guard leaves the gate open a crack. See ya. Thanks for the kibble! I'll come home right after I tire of freedom.

And people wonder: "But he was such a good dog. Why would he run away?"

I don't know--adventure, peeing wherever he wants, eating pizza scraps on the ground, staying outside until his heart is content...

It's the same thing with relationships. "But he was such a good boyfriend. Why would he leave me?" I don't know--adventure, peeing wherever he wants, eating pizza scraps on the ground...

Sophie and Noel

Sophie and Noel won Pets of the Month for June. They beat out some rat-faced dog, another loser dog, and get this--somebody actually nominated a pair of cats. ??? Like cats could ever be Pet of the Month.

Anyway, you can see a few photos of them here.

Vote Sophie and Noel

I work for a dog walking company that has a "Pet of the Month" contest. Until recently, it was more rigged than an election in a banana republic.

But to what will soon be the owner's utter dismay, she started letting dog walkers explain why people should vote for his or her nominee. Here's my entry:

***
I would like to nominate Sophie and Noel for Pets of the Month.

Sophie is a golden retriever and the cutest dog ever. This is not an exaggeration. She entered the 2005 National Cute Dog Competition and completely crushed Pickles and Muffin.

Sophie reminds me of a human more than any of my dogs. By that I mean she's neurotic. When I enter the house, she acts like she has been on a deserted island for the past six months and will absolutely die if I don't pet her right now. She also has a Kong that she carries with her everywhere. It's like a baby to her. Well, not exactly. Sometimes she wants me to throw the baby across the field. And it's made of rubber, and babies are made of something else (feathers?). But in all other aspects, it is like a baby.

Sophie is wonderful with children. Once, we met a little boy who wanted to pet her but was very scared. She sat down and waited for him to feel comfortable. Another time, she met a kid who started teasing her and poking her with a stick. She looked very anxious, but didn't bark or growl at all. The kid's parents weren't around, so I stepped in and, like any responsible adult would do, picked the kid up and put him in a well. That'll teach him.

Speaking of wells, I have a well of affection for Noel, Sophie's sister. Noel is a 14-year-old beagle mix. She is very shy around strangers. It took her several weeks to feel comfortable with me, but once she did, we became extremely close. One of my favorite moments as a dog walker is the first time she rolled over and wanted a belly rub.

Noel's hobbies include pooping and peeing on the carpet. She's a cosmopolitan dog.

To be serious for a moment, she hasn't been doing well lately. Her heart arrhythmia has worsened and she has been coughing a lot the past few weeks. I'm not sure how much longer she'll be around. It would make her very happy to win Pet of the Month before she passes away.

I know. Guilt trip. But it's true. So please vote for Sophie and Noel. They're two special dogs who just want to be loved. Unlike that prima donna Pickles.

Shazam.

Hodgepodge

* There are certain oft-quoted phrases that have a lyrical quality to them but are bereft of wisdom once you focus on the literal meaning of the phrase. Like "No rest for the weary." Well, yeah. That's why they're weary. Isn't that like saying "No work for the unemployed?" or "No sex for the guy in the Vulcan ears?"

* The stature of a basketball player is so great that it eclipses whatever humor people would find in an odd name under normal circumstances. Harry Dick could join the NBA, and nobody would laugh at his name as long as he got 20 and 10 during the regular season.

And Magic Johnson? He's literally saying his penis is magic. That's a lifetime of ridicule, even among adults, but have you ever heard someone poke fun of his name? Everyone loves Magic Johnson. The WNBA will finally hit the big time when one of their stars is called Special Vagina. "Special Vagina from downtown...IT'S GOOD!"

* "Closed captioning for Malcolm in the Middle is sponsored by..." Is closed captioning so unworthy a task that programs need to be paid to do it? "Closed captioning for Scrubs is sponsored by…no one. Sorry, deaf people."

* A job can influence how one looks at the world. For example, I'm a dog walker. A lot of people are calling for Paula Abdul to leave American Idol because she allegedly slept with a former contestant. I don’t care if she slept with him. But I think she should be kicked off the show for this:

"He says Abdul advised him on his clothes, haircut and song selection for "American Idol," and slept with him in the guest bedroom of her Los Angeles home, where he shared space with her dogs Thumbelina, Tulip and Tinker Bell.

What kind of sick person names their dogs Thumbelina, Tulip and Tinker Bell? I've walked over a hundred dogs, and still, those are the Three Musketeers of stupid dog names. What's worse is that I'll bet at least two of those dogs are males. I hope Tinker Bell pisses all over her sheets.

Damn it

My roommate got me sick. I'm going to piss in his bed. I'll blame it on the dog. We don't have a dog, but I'll tell him that I brought one of my clients' dogs over and he pissed on the bed. And so he doesn't get mad at the dog, I'll get a picture of the cat hanging from the tree branch ("Hang in there!"), replace the face with the head of a really cute dog, and place it in the middle of the wet bed.

And if my roommate gets me sick again, I'm going to repeat the whole process, but this time I'm going to tell him the dog didn't leave his photo as an apology. Oh, no. It's his calling card. The psychological blow will be devastating.

Notes I Didn't Leave My Dog Walking Clients, #1

"Daisy and I ran into her friend, Thunder. They played for several mintues, getting frisky a few times, if you know what I mean. If you don't know what I mean, THUNDER WAS HUMPING DAISY."

Dog Story

Yesterday, my dog walking duties took me to a new house. Unfamiliar dogs require a strategy: open the door, say the dog's name several times in a bright, happy voice, and hope it doesn't go for the balls.

Arlo, a pint-size beagle, kept his distance. He wiggled a few steps towards me before losing courage and darting away, stopping only to launch a few high-pitched barks at the strange man in front of him.

Unfortunately for Arlo, dogs are the only creature in the animal kingdom that Hollywood movie logic works on. If you are ever burglarizing a house, and a vicious, rabid dog darts out of the darkness, his chain snapping tight inches before his fangs bury themselves into your thigh, there is no need to panic. For you really can toss the dog a T-bone steak and make it your friend.

Or, for Arlo, half a sausage treat, no bigger than a thumbnail. Before his treat, my intention was obvious: to snatch Arlo and ship him to the processing department of a Puppy Juice Factory. Afterwards, I could obviously be trusted, because bad people don't have treats.

If you think the logic behind this is suspect, let me say this: terrorists hate freedom. We didn't go to war for WMDs. Bad people don't have treats.

Alas, Hollywood movie logic works with no other animal. Put a real monkey on roller skates, and he will snap off his diaper and fling it at your head. Swim with the dolphins, mimicking their grace as you arc in and out of the water, and one of them will whack you in the gut with its snout while the other will snap off your trunks.

Face an unfriendly dog, though, and all it takes to gain his love is tossing him the doggie equivalent of a string of Mardi Gras beads. Flip them titties, doggie! Papa wants to take you on a walk.

It's a Dog Eat Everything World

Dogs are the culinary cowboys and cowgirls of the animal kingdom. They eat first, ask questions later.

I am a dog walker, and during almost every walk, my charge and I will pass several items that fall along the spectrum of food to trash: discarded napkin, candy wrapper, pizza crust, mud-caked paper, and so on.

One would think that I would just have to keep Sophie, a golden retriever I walk, away from the pizza crust and maybe from the candy wrapper if there is still traces of chocolate smeared on it. Just to be safe, since chocolate makes dogs sick.

Ha ha ha ha ha!

In the world of dogs, there is no trash. There is only food, food?, and "probably not food, but why take a chance?"

When I pass a balled-up napkin, Sophie will try to eat it. Sure, it could be a napkin. Or...it could be a napkin dipped in barbeque sauce! Or a napkin someone dropped after robbing the gravy store and fleeing the police. Or a delicious dog biscuit cleverly disguised in napkin form, a reward for any dog brave enough to challenge the orthodoxy of molecular structure and one's lying eyes.

A bloodhound can identify your scales of skin that you shed three days ago. Dogs have 40 times the number of scent receptors in their noses than humans. So does Sophie sniff the napkin for 1.5 seconds before deciding whether to eat it?

Of course not. Maybe that's what dogs used to do, but today's modern dogs don't have the time. I've seen Sophie scoop up a wad of paper, scan for grease and chocolate, and spit it out while my tongue is still lifting upwards to make an "S".

Sophie and I have a different reaction when she pulls off a successful eating. I feel guilty and frustrated, having failed to stop her from eating something that will either give her diarrhea or an upset stomach. She feels like she just pulled off the most amazing feat, like the con in The Sting or a bank shot off three walls.

I used to lunge to pull the offending substance from her mouth until I realized she was interpreting that as a lesson in the stupidity of chewing. Our current agreement is that if my attention slips and she eats something yucky, I won't flip out, unless it's extremely disgusting. A piece of bread with jelly on it: okay. If the jelly has ants on it, I'm doing what I can to swat it from her mouth.

She gets enough protein as it is from the ants on the pizza crusts.

Miracles

There are miracles of nature that are both breathtaking and rare. A double rainbow. A shooting star. A lunar eclipse.

Then there's seeing a dog poop while standing up. Brought a tear to my eye.

Crime of the Month is More Like It

Several weeks ago, I've unearthed a scandal in the pet sitting company I work for. I called the Metro section of The Washington Post and, after being bounced around to a few people, spoke with Mike Allen, an investigative reporter who was in the middle of a story on Iraq's missing WMDs. He dropped that story for this one.

The article will appear tomorrow, either on the front page or printed in the speech balloons of the next two weeks of Garfield, but here is the gist.

Every month, the company owner sends a email to all the employees and asks them to nominate a dog for Dog of the Month. The dog with the most votes wins and gets his or her picture posted on the company's web site.

Or, I should say, in a real democracy the dog with the most votes would win. In the sick world of Pooch Pals, Inc. whatever dog curries the Emperor's favor gets appointed.

The process is a complete sham. The decision makers are not the people but an oligarchy consisting of the owner and her family members that make up the desk staff.

Take this month's dog, Scout, for example. To the average person visiting the web site, Scout is an adorable white-haired terrier with wide eyes and an inquisitive look. He is four years old, playful, and likes to chew on old socks.

What that person doesn't know is that the owners paid off the judges and Scout is on 'roids. He has four first-place ribbons and a third-place ribbon from dog shows in the past six months, all while doped up on poppers and running high on psychacetlatimine and hormone boosters. The dog pees green and puts a dent in the ground when he poops.

Naïve that I am, I challenged Scout's appointment before realizing the machinations that went on behind the surface. I sent my manager an email diplomatically suggesting that all future Dogs of the Month be tested for steroids. She responded questioning my fitness for employment. Message received. Either drink the Kool-Aid or head for the door.

Once the article comes out, I am sure my termination will be swift. My employment prospects are unknown, but that's secondary. When a great injustice has been committed, there is only one course of action: to speak out.

And to kidnap the dog and hide him in a detox program. Our prayers are with you, Scout!

Perhaps it's a sign...

...that I'm too partisan when a dog I walk wandered into a yard with a Bush/Cheney '04 sign, and I chanted, under my breath, "Poop, poop, poop, poop..."
Unfortunately, he didn't poop. Even after I shook him.

(For the record, yes, I would have picked up his poop, and no, I didn't shake him. I jumped next to him and yelled, "Rar! I'm a big bear! Now poop!" But that is an emotional shake, not a physical shake.)

I'll Pass On This One

The pet sitting / dog walking company I work for has a web-accesible database with information on each client's pets, how to care for them, and so on. I found this in the file of a client I was considering pet sitting for:

Feed dogs separately. Annie in basement and Abe by the water. Dogs are friendly and playful. Cats may hide under the bed or chair upstairs. Cat carrier is in basement. If cat is deceased, put in towel and put in fridge.

Good Morning!

I woke up at 6:00 a.m. to walk a dog. Even with four hours of sleep, I feel energetic. There is something invigorating about hearing the caws of crows echo across the land as the sun warms the underbellies of dark clouds and turns them into a bright orange. Life has given me so much energy now. I feel I can do anything in the world, anything that I--

Zzzz...

(Like you didn't see that coming. I'm taking a nap. I like my cloud underbellies bright white and pre-heated. See you at 1:00 p.m.)

Misc.

• If New York were invaded by a giant race of ants, and someone looked at the invasion from the top of a skyscraper, it would look just like a lot of ants attacking a lot of other ants.
  "Who's winning?"
  "I'm not sure. Which side has the ray guns?

• One of the dogs I am taking care of over the weekend greeted me this afternoon with a pile of watery poop on the carpet. The one good thing about cleaning a dog's poop (and there is only one good thing) is that it makes other chores a lot easier. Like cleaning the bathroom. "Hey, my roommate didn't poop on the floor. Awesome!"

• You know you're really rich when you can poop like a dog: on the carpet and have someone else pick it up.

Why Yes, I Do Love Dogs

While checking my server logs, I saw that someone found the site through I-love-dogs.com. "Huh. I guess I got in their database after one of their spiders scanned a post about my experiences as a dog walker." Not exactly.

Come On, Get Your Cruise

I suspect advertisers target their ads towards dogs and just replace their names with ours.

"Spot - Reward yourself with new Pepsi Edge"

I realized that the difference between me and the dogs I walk is that when I get really hungry, I can open cupboards.

This Is Not a Joke. I Repeat. This Is Not a Joke.

Somebody get me the measurements for Ms. South Carolina!


(Thanks[?] to Amy Spizler for the link.)