The Terriorists Too

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2005-01-31T17:30:00.000-08:00

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Servin' Up Supper to Service Dogs in Iraq

2005-01-31T10:47:00.000-08:00

I found this information over at Dog News. With the success of the recent Iraqi elections, we need to be aware of all the people--and canines--workin' hard to defeat the enemies of freedom.

(In the interest of full disclosure--since I'm a conservative Republi-canine I have to say this, ya' know, or the lefties will howl--I received no compensation from Kumpi Dog Food for posting this story.)

"Kumpi Cares for Service Dogs in Iraq. When I called Kumpi Dog Food to place an order, Evy Serpa, the president, told me about her company's volunteer efforts to help service dogs working in Iraq:

"These dogs save lives by identifying bombs so that civilians and soldiers are not blown up. The dogs are rarely injured, but the fact remains that every service dog puts its life on the line for its human counterparts. Sadly, many of these dogs are malnourished and starving.

"If you want to donate the best quality dog food, please help Evy's "Kumpi Kares for Iraq" service dogs fund by visiting any Denver metro area Wells Fargo Bank. For more information, call (303) 693-6533.

"To order this quality dog food (which my dogs have personally tested and enjoyed), call Kumpi on its new toll free number: 1-877-465-8674 or go to Kumpi.com. Our dogs have tried both the senior Kumpi food and the regular Kumpi food. My smaller dog's bald spots (from prior surgeries) disappeared after she switched to Kumpi!

"Helping service dogs is nothing new for Kumpi. The company also fed the service dogs which helped dig out the 911 disaster victims!"

HAHAHAHAHA

2005-01-30T18:58:00.000-08:00

Even when I rant I'm right!

Teaching Computers to Read No Simple Task

"Among the handiest villains in science fiction are Computers That Know Too Much. Think of the dream-weaving despots of "The Matrix" or murderous HAL in "2001: A Space Odyssey." But in reality, even the most super supercomputer lacks the reasoning capacity of a child engrossed in a Dr. Seuss book. Computers can't read the way we do. They can't learn or reason like us." [Emphasis mine]

Hell, they can't even read the same code the same way and now they want 'em to read War and Peace? Is it wise to have these things controllin' our nukes? Kinda' like lettin' a cat's paw anywhere near that Red Button.

"Narrowing that cognitive gap between humans and machines - creating a computer that can read and learn at a sophisticated level - is a big goal of artificial intelligence researchers."

Send those guys the latest version of Hooked on Phonics® before they blow us all to kingdom come.

Attention Firefox/Netscape Users

2005-01-30T15:39:00.000-08:00

A sincere thank you to those who brought this problem to my attention. Now…

--begin rant--

Deal with it, humans.

Until those two stop lickin' their own balls and come up with a way to make themselves compatible with other browsers, you're gonna' be stuck with the junk you see here.

AHM is not a computer geek. In fact, she's as far from a computer geek as you can imagine--think a galaxy farther than far, far away, okay? She's doin' the best she can to redo the backgrounds. Apparently FF and NS can't read 'em. (In old elementary school terms, they're in the "slow class"--out to lunch in the park 'stead of behind a desk learnin' the three "Rs.")

If someone out there wants to help by explain' why two out of three background images are showin' up and the main one isn't, feel free to email. Otherwise you'll just have to tough it out until AHM slogs her slow way through all the options. We've emailed Blogspot and they're not talkin'. And no, there's no money in the old change purse to upgrade the blogging service.

This was supposed to be fun--not endless hours of frustration tryin' to make every Tom, Dick, and Harry Browser happy.

--end of rant--

I, Canine

2005-01-28T23:56:00.000-08:00

I love music as much as the next guy--especially when AHM is playin'. Usually. Most of the time. Sometimes. Okay, I'm not too crazy about listenin' to her practice.

What I can't understand, tho, is the way you humans clamp those weird things around your head and pipe music straight into the old eardrums. Geeze--how can you stand it?--all that shriekin' and screechin' and poundin'. I wanna' howl just thinkin' about it.

Well, since you insist on doing such really dumb stuff, here's an amusin' invention for the canine aficionados among you.

"Sega launches iDog, the musical canine robot...a portable dog shaped speaker. So you could totally hook up your iPod to the iDog to share your music.

"The iDog can express 4 emotions joy, anger, grief and happiness, using its neck, ears and 7 LEDs built into the face to let you know what it is feeling, e.g., when you touch the tail, the iDog gets angry, and makes a cute sound."

Touch my tail and that "cute sound" will be the combination of snapping teeth and shrieking human.

"Looks aside, it does the usual stuff we’ve come to expect from robot pets, like responding “emotionally” to touches to its various sensors. Its main claim to fame is its musical ability, though it’ll improvise tunes based on 720 internal musical phrases, changing the mood of the music as you wave your hand over the phototransistor on its head."

I'd create lots of improvisational tunes if that wavin' hand is holdin' a nice big piece of liver.

"They’ve even included an external audio jack on its hindquarters for you to connect an external player;… And yes, it does waggle its ears and paws in time to the music."

Stick a jack in my hindquarters and I guaran-damn-tee I'll do more than waggle my ears and paws. Just ask my vet.

"According to the Japan Today news site, the four-legged automaton features a number of switches located on its nose and other parts of its diminutive body that are used to create and play music. It has other buttons that cause the pet to light up or express emotions."

Ooooo--I like people pushin' my buttons. Find the right one and I reeeeallly light up and emote like crazy.

"The mechanical beast also features onboard sensors that detect and react to movements when it is held in an owner's hands."

Guess that means you can make it do the back leg scratch if you rub its belly. And no, if you value your button-pushin' fingers, don't even think of tryin' that on me.

Homespun Symposium X

2005-01-26T23:57:00.000-08:00

Paulie at The Commons poses this week's question.

"I've notice that a seemingly large proportion of the blogosphere is composed of "cat bloggers." What are the political parties your cats belong to, and how did you derive their determination? Please reply for each cat, with examples. If you do not own a cat, could you post on how you think cats determine their political affiliations (purely speculative, I know), or why cat owners are such nuts for their cats?

Dog owners: You know dogs are either Greens or Whigs. Please explain the Greenness or Whiggery of your dog(s).

I am one of only two Homespun Bloggers (to date) completely qualified to answer this question since all other bloggers are humans speaking for their live-in animals. I, of course, thanks to my superior intellect, speak for myself (as even Glenn Reynolds notes).

This question is about a topic I've covered previously and written about extensively. There are Republi-canines and Demo-cats. Rather self-explanatory isn't it? However, I'm always willing to repeat myself until you humans get it right--and I'm not goin' away 'til you do.

Now, I'm not at all sure why Paulie--for whom I had the greatest respect--thinks dogs are either Greens or Whigs. (Guess I'll have to write it off to Stockholm Syndrome--too many years held hostage by fe-lyings.) Canines are not environmentally conscious--just consider the amount of holes my less fastidious brethren dig or how thoroughly we can obliterate any landscape--natural or planned--if engaged in hot fe-lyin' pursuit.

As for Whiggery… Hardly! Canines are very much advocates of strong executive leadership. Power disperses outward through the pack with each member having certain responsibilities, but the direction of those activities comes from the Alpha. The Apha Human, of course, is the undisputed President. Without an Alpha there is anarchy. Or a fe-lyin' paradise. Same thing. And don't forget we choose our Alphas, human or canine. (You Omega Humans know who you are. You're the ones who get our best Robert DeNiro impression whenever you're foolish enough to boss us around. "You talkin' to me? You talkin' to me? You talkin' to me?")

As for fe-lyings… Well, they're the ultimate welfare queens--livin' off the fat of the land. And packin' it on, too. There's a reason the expression "fat cat" is not a term of endearment, ya' know. They'll ignore you while they live under your roof, eat your food, barf on your bed, leave hair on your sweaters and dead rodents in your shoes. Then they'll demand your attention at the most inconvenient time and claw your butt to ribbons if they don't get it.

And if that doesn't sound like a Demo-cat I don't know what does!

Other Commentary: Ogre's Politics and Views; Ruah; The Commons at Paulie World; The Redhunter; Secure Liberty; Dagney's Rant; Nixon's Memoirs.

Why Dogs Don't Climb Mountains

2005-01-26T01:34:00.000-08:00

'Tho my Dad climbed trees.

"A dog fell off a downtown high rise and was rescued by a mountain climber who propelled down a building to reach it…

"Richie is a 2½-year-old mixed breed dog. Earlier this month, Richie and his owner, Julia Kastner, were hanging out on the roof of a friend's apartment when the unthinkable happened. "I lost track of him for a second. He fell three stories to another person's balcony. We couldn't get to him because this person was out of town," Kastner said. "He was cold and in pain and terrified. He's never felt pain like that before."

"After three hours, Kastner still could not reach Richie since there was no access to the balcony. So a friend used his mountaineering skills in a way he never expected. "My friend drove across town to get rock climbing gear out of storage and he repelled down the side of the building to get Richie," Kastner said.

"The dog was rushed to an emergency clinic where Dr. William Daly operated on it. Richie suffered from major fractures… Daly said the dog is recovering well."

My Dad climbed trees. Don't think he meant to, though. See, he was tryin' to chase a fe-lyin' out of our yard and naturally the litter clump went up the oak tree instead.

Now this was a real old tree and the trunk sloped like a freeway on ramp. Cat ran up the trunk. Dad ran up the trunk. Tough to tell who was more surprised--Dad when he realized what he'd done or the fe-lyin' who spun around to spit out a few taunts and came whiskers to incisors with a tree-climbin' terrier.

The standin' broad jump record was broken that day, trust me on that. Rocky the Flyin' Squirrel had nothin' on that fe-lyin'. It sailed off the nearest branch, soared through the air space over half the yard, and just skimmed the top of the fence before streakin' away across the field toward the lurkin' grounds of the local coyote pack. (We didn't tell 'em that part.)

Now Dad was in a mess. We were all lined up watchin' from the porch and the Alpha Dog Dignity was at stake. (Alpha Human Mom wasn't any help--she was too busy cleanin' herself up after snortin' soda out her nose.) A bunch of branches joined together to make a kind of shelf where the confrontation took place, so Dad turned himself around and figured he'd just walk right back down again. Worked fine until he hit that patch of loose bark.

Dad learned to ski that day. Sort of. He only went about two and a half feet before he bailed out. Luckily there was a pile of leaves around the base of the tree.

The weird thing is, in the end he liked it. He was always tryin' to chase the local ranch fe-lyings up that tree just so he could go after 'em. All in all, his little trick probably accounted for about three lives per cat for every fe-lyin' in a five mile radius.

Just takin' care of business.

Whack-a-Gopher

2005-01-13T02:30:00.000-08:00

When I was a pup in California I liked playin' whack-a-gopher. Not the game you humans play at an arcade with the rodents poppin' out of holes while you pummel 'em with a club--or the on line version. No, this was honest-to-god whack the actual gopher dead.

Gophers are pretty much worthless, rootin' around underground as if they had somethin' important to do when all they really do is create an unholy mess. They eat crops and plants, gnaw on tree roots, screw up irrigation troughs, and leave mounds and tunnels everywhere just so an unsuspecting cow or horse or human can step in 'em and break an ankle. Some of 'em even chew on underground cables and pipes which can get real expensive real fast.

Maybe they do some good things, too, but those things are few and far in between.

My dad had a special technique for gopher-whacking. None of that burrowing-down-to-their-nest routine like ordinary terriers. No, my dad believed in usin' brains instead of brawn and was big on maintaining his natty appearance by lettin' the other guy do all the grunt work. So down we'd go into the pasture, followin' the sound of munchin' and diggin', until we located the entrance mound. Then we'd sit by the opening.

And sit... And sit... Sit still... Sit real still... Real, real still. If ya' hopped around, Dad would smack ya' silly.

All those gophers were busy with their dirty work underground, scurryin' hither and yon, squeakin' and snufflin' among themselves as if what they said mattered one LiverSnap®. It was only a matter of time until they got arrogant enough to poke their stupid snouts out of the hole, then bingo! Dad would nail 'em. (And Harold Ramis passed on him when castin' Caddyshack.)

That gopher-whackin' kinda' reminds me of what President Bush (and other Republi-canines) do to Demo-cats. The President makes his proposals then just sits there real quiet--waitin' for all the fools to pop up.

First there was Senator Boxer and Representative Conyers pretendin' to be statespersons. After that came Ted Kennedy and Patrick Leahy pretendin' to be Senators.

Close behind was this Dem crew. [Dug up at Never Sway.]

"A News Tribune article suggests that enough evidence has been gathered by the GOP in Washington’s governors’ race to possibly invalidate the election:"

And bringin' up the rear (where they belong) are these fe-lyings. [Dug up at Mr. Minority's.]

"A federal PAC calling itself "Patriots For Gore" released a statement this week calling Al Gore the "rightful president of 2000" and announcing that they're investigating "if there is a legal and constitutional way to restore that term to Vice President Gore."

I could never figure out why those gophers didn't know Dad and me were waitin' for 'em. Can't figure out why Demo-cats don't know the same thing.

Memos to Self

2005-01-07T01:03:00.000-08:00

Memo to self #1: find out if they make canine aspirin.

What a headache I have. Oh, not from a hangover. (You think Alpha Human Mom would give us liquor? Are you nuts?) No, this headache was incurred in the line of duty. So where's my purple heart already?

It's been so warm these days AHM has been leavin' the windows and doors open. Now when she does that, Little Girl likes to shove open the screen door and it doesn't always close. Around here open door equals uninvited guests--anything from birds to frogs to bats. (Yeah, you read that right.)

This time, though, it was a mouse. A dumb mouse.

There we were--relaxin' and watching some silly show on TV. We were dozin' (since we can't see the picture real well) and makin' comments in appropriate places--like doorbells ringin', dogs barkin', fe-lyings yowlin', that sort of stuff--when I looked up from my chair to see a mouse tiptoein' across the room. Really. A tiptoein' mouse. It wasn't scurryin' like mice do--it was up on its little toes takin' one careful step at a time. Smart move when you're tryin' to navigate a roomful of terriers! Stupid move to come into the room to start with, but, hey, fe-lyings catch 'em all the time, so how smart can mice be anyway?

It was fascinatin' to watch it. I looked over at AHM who was watchin'. AHM glanced at me with that "do something" frown. We looked down at the kids who were sprawled in a pile. No one moved--except the mouse who kept right on tiptoein' along the hearth. Frankly I might have let 'em go, figgerin' it would wander out on its own. Mouse would have made it too--if it hadn't sneezed.

It was a very soft sneeze, but a sneeze it definitely was. The mouse bounced with the effort--all four feet off the ground. And Hem heard it. Then he saw it. Unfortunately he was lyin' on his back at the time and saw it upside down. We're fast, but startin' with a disadvantage like that, you're not out of the blocks real quick.

Hem flipped over and lunged toward the mouse. I launched from the chair which got everyone else up and racing behind us, even though I doubt they had a clue just what we were after. The mouse chose speed over stealth (which was pretty much gone with the sneeze anyway), shot out of the studio, down the hall, and into the living room.

Now if you know anything about mouse-chasin' you'll know mice never take the quickest way across a room, i.e. the open space in the middle. They know we'll be on 'em in a New York minute in the open field. So, mouse enters living room and executes a sharp right to run around the edges. We figure we'll trap it under the desk in the corner and followed right after.

Memo to self #2: stupidest mouse can make right turn on hardwood floors a lot faster than dogs with claws…

By the time we untangled, the mouse had done a loop-de-loop around the circular coffee table, navigated its way under the corner desk, and was makin' a break for the dining room. We were in full voice, spread out line abreast headin' through the archway--with AHM and LG as rear guard--and figured we had that little sucker cold.

Mouse made abrupt left into the kitchen.

Memo to self #3: mass of dog pack exceeds width of kitchen doorway.

One more collision and we were gonna' be fightin' each other.

I took the lead and saw the little sneak aimin' for the cabinet under the sink. The door was barely ajar but enough for a skinny little rodent to squeeze through and into the narrow gap around the drain pipe.

Memo to self #4: dumb mouse can get into places we can't.

That's the sort of thing you don't remember when you're in full chase mode and intent on makin' that pest pay for invadin' your space.

Memo to self #5: rag throw rugs are called "rag throw rugs" for a reason.

We created a pile up worthy of rush hour on the 405 in Los Angeles. My nose was jammed into the crack of the door or I would have taken out whichever of my pups ran up my butt. Luckily AHM was on the spot 'cause the girls started bitchin' among themselves about who let the mouse get away and needed to be sprayed down. Convenient things those sink sprayers.

Memo to AHM: Buy mouse traps!

Stupid Human Tricks

2004-12-16T14:18:00.000-08:00

Well Maury was here recently and didn't do anything stupid which is some kind of record. Alpha Human Mom on the other hand…

Gotta' say it's not often we get to see AHM do stupid things--not since a couple of years ago when she dropped the air conditioner out the window, half-leaped after it, and hauled it back in by the power cord. Not the best view of AHM let me tell you! But the AC still works.

Most of ya' know AHM helps out people with dog sittin' which generally means we have lots of company like Maury and Miss Garbo. I'm okay with that--especially when that babe Garbo shows up--and it keeps things interestin' durin' the gardenin' season. And chasin' the Westie whimp Robbie around the yard gives my pups a change from chasin' fe-lyings. (Don't think his humans like him comin' home covered with grease from hidin' under the car all the time, but, hey, if you're gonna' be a wuss that's the price you pay.)

The other day, though, we went to Darwin's and Everton's house. We do that whenever their Alpha Human PB wants to spend a night or two with his special--ummm--friend. So the other night we strolled over to their place, sat around outside the garage/pen watchin' them eat (they hold the world food inhalin' record) then walked through the neighborhood to check out the Cute House. (More on that later, maybe.) When we got back to the (heated) garage, Darwin and Everton settled down on their beds, AHM checked the water, turned out the lights, and padlocked the door.

Pretty ordinary so far--until AHM was suddenly down at our level on her hands and knees, gropin' through the grass and leaves and mulch and most everythin' else you can think of--or not as the case may be. The pups thought it was a game and joined right in, stickin' their noses in all sorts of places--most of 'em where a human does not want a cold, wet, snotty dog nose stuck.

AHM started usin' words she musta' learned from a fe-lyin', pretendin' she was talkin' to us. (She does that a lot so people don't think she talks to herself. We pretend to understand.) We had just about figured out she'd mislaid PB's keyring when she sorta' got mislaid herself.

Ya' see, PB is a true English gardener with flowerbeds allllll over the place. Irregularly shaped, raised flowerbeds with waterin' troughs dug around the edges. Ya' don't run through his yard after dark since it's kinda' like chargin' across a WWI no man's land. Ya' don't crawl through his yard either, especially when it's dark and cold--and wet from rain.

There was a distinct splash and AHM hissin' more bad words--hissin' 'cause it was late and AHM isn't the sort to start yellin' obscenities at the top of her lungs no matter how much she wanted to. There were a bunch of sloppin', suckin' noises and then a Gawd-awful clangin'. Seems PB had stuck some decorative iron bells in that particular flowerbed. AHM got them all ringin'.

After a bunch more swearin' and squelchin', AHM finally decided to look through the garage window which led to some louder swearin'. There was just enough light from the corner street lamp to see the keyring lyin' on the workbench inside. Of course all the garage doors were locked. All the windows were locked too. No way in…

Except…

Continued…read the rest!

…except for the doggie door inside the pen.

This show was gonna be better than anything on Letterman.

Everton and Darwin came out and for a couple of seconds we all just stood there starin' at each other and the black hole in the garage wall. AHM isn't a large person but that openin' looked pretty small, especially in the dark. Finally she started gropin' through the bags of leaves piled along the fence--PB's a big recycler and he collects bags of leaves from other people's trash piles. (And you thought only canines went dumpster divin'!)

The gate was at the farthest corner from the light and about this time Everton decided AHM was playin' a game. He would run along the fence, jump up and try to lick AHM's face while she was fightin' with the gate latches. Sometimes he'd get in a lucky shot and AHM would stagger around tryin' to stay on her feet after gettin' smacked by a 60+ pound lab. We were stuck with our leashes tied to the pottin' table so we couldn't see the whole show, but there were bags of leaves bouncin' and rollin' in all directions, and bongin' off the metal frame of the old swing set PB had turned into a flower arbor.

Every time AHM got the gate to budge, Everton would jump against it, slammin' it shut until it started to look like one of those chest-thumpin' celebrations football players have after one of 'em scores a touchdown. AHM finally got the timin' right, actually gettin' inside the pen, and inchin' her way along the fence to the doggie door.

The moment of truth. We were at the end of our leashes strain' to see. Darwin and Everton were lined up like an honor guard by the door. AHM was warnin' 'em both, in no uncertain terms, of the consequences of them tryin' anything funny. Then she charged into the breech. Okay, crawled into the breech. Head. Shoulders. Hips. Butt. She made it!

Darwin and Everton were close behind, bouncin' in celebration. Maybe a little too close. There were a couple of thumps and bangs, a clatter, a slosh, and the sound of AHM usin' more fe-lyin' words. Then she came out through the big garage door, drippin' wet, carryin' the giant sized water bowl. And the keys.

I think even Letterman would be impressed.

Kibbles 'n Bits®

2004-12-09T01:36:00.000-08:00

Republi-canine migrates from blue-state Washington to red-state Texas. Blue state owner says it's too much trouble to have the dog sent home. (Get a demo-cat ya' dumb broad!)

"A trucker found the 11-year-old mixed breed dog in Amarillo a week ago and brought her to a Denton veterinary hospital — 1,600 miles away from her Castle Rock, Wash. home.

"Gail Scott was shocked when the North Texas animal hospital called to say they'd found her dog, who was identified through an implanted microchip. "How did my dog get to Texas?" she recalls asking…

"Scott, who adopted Carla in 1998 from a Washington pound, has asked the animal hospital to put the dog up for adoption. She said it would be too hard to get Carla back to Washington because it's too cold for her to fly in the cargo area of a plane and too expensive to hire someone to drive her home.

"The Flower Mound Human Society is now caring for Carla and looking for a family to adopt her. At least one person has expressed interest."

And humans say we lick strange things…

"The Cleveland radio sidekick apparently missed that sage advice: Don't lick a bug-zapper. Dieter learned a harsh lesson Friday during a stunt on "Rover's Morning Glory" on "Xtreme Radio" (WXTM FM/92.3). He plugged in a dirty, back-porch hanging contraption and stuck his tongue on the wire grate."

Fe-lyin' s reveal alien mind meld terrorist plot.

"An Italian man who believes he's a cat had to be rescued by firemen when he got stuck up a tree. Shoppers spotted the man at the top of the tree mewing for help and called rescue services after he was still there more than an hour later.

"Attempts by local kids to coax him down with a saucer of milk failed, and as a result the 46-year-old cat-man had to be carried down a ladder by firemen. He was taken to hospital in Milan where he is undergoing psychiatric tests, news website Tgcom reported."

Tig cam?--oops no--Tgcom…

"Good Dogs, Bad People and Cats"

2004-12-08T13:16:00.000-08:00

Now there's a New York Times headline I like! [Login: ih8reges PW: thatsright]

"Do animals have moral values? It's a tough question. We can't rely on exit polls. As everyone knows, it's impossible to get a straight answer from a cat.

It's impossible to get any kind of answer. They're all too busy pretendin' they're gods or somethin'.

"The question comes to mind because of a report in the Nov. 25 issue of Nature by Karthik Panchanathan and Dr. Robert Boyd of the University of California, Los Angeles. The researchers did a mathematical analysis of how cooperation and punishment might make evolutionary sense.

"…it's hard to see how cooperation would evolve without punishment. Why not be a slugabed, or free rider, as the researchers term it, and live off the cooperative people? The analysis showed that one punishment, refusing to help free riders, turns out to be a method that makes survival sense."

Hmmmm… Speakin' of "free riders"…

"Fair enough. But in something of an offhand comment, quoted in a U.C.L.A. news release, Mr. Panchanathan said, "If you put two dogs together, and one dog does something inappropriate, the other dog doesn't care, so long as it doesn't get hurt." He added, "It certainly wouldn't react with moralist outrage. Likewise, it would not experience elation if it saw one dog help out another dog. But humans are very different."

What does he know. My dad was big on keepin' the pack in line and he definitely cared. One of my half-sisters had turned into quite a little street-walker which irritated the hell out of us. (She was a real head case--we decided it was 'cause she hung around with Silly Human Female too much.) Half-sis would climb the four foot high picket fence. Yep--the picket fence--the kind with pointy tops. Makes me cringe just thinkin' about it. Then she'd go shashayin' around town, wigglin' her butt at every stray hangin' on the streetcorner, while the rest of us ran around like fools tryin' to find her.

Dad was definitely morally outraged about the whole thing, and decided to put a stop to her behavior. Every time she headed for the fence and started to climb, he would rush off to find AHM and raise such a ruckus she'd come outside in time to catch sis in the act.

"…If dogs have a sense of right and wrong, then they could do wrong. Right? They may not be capable of carrying guilt around for years and years and years, but they do recognize certain rules about how to act in a social group, and that is sort of a moral value."

I've talked about social group/moral values business already. Now, I'm not too sure about carryin' around guilt for years and years, but we sure as hell know when we've screwed up and try not to repeat that mistake. And we remember for years and years not to repeat that mistake!

Go watch a major dog show some day--especially the Best in Show competition. There we are, all millin' around muzzle to muzzle, and (mostly) never fightin'! And if a Borzoi wins BOS at Westminster, you don't see every Borzoi in town riotin' and burnin' their kennels in celebration, do you? So already our moral values are better than your average sports fan's. Not to mention a fe-lyin's. Go visit a major fe-lyin' beauty contest and you'll see they have to keep those suckers in cages 'cause they just can't get along!

"In fact, if moral values and moral outrage are results of evolution, in human beings they may have reached the level of being counterproductive, like the vast antlers that supposedly doomed the Irish elk."

Yeah. Humans spend waaaayyy to much time worryin' about whether or not their feelin's have been hurt. Geeze! If they had to put up with the crap we canines have to deal with they'd be blithering fools. Oh. Wait…

"Dogs could presumably evolve into the same morass. It is, however, reserved for social animals, as Dr. [Frans] de Waal [author of "Good Natured: The Origin of Right and Wrong in Humans and Other Animals,"] points out. Animals that evolved as solitary predators feel no moral bonds or restrictions on their behavior."

Not too sure about that "moral bonds" business. I gotta' admit, if a hot babe in heat wanders past it's every canine for himself. And the bitch is no great paragon of moral virture either! But aside from that we generally respect everyone in the pack--unlike those spoiled brat "only dogs" we sometimes meet up with. (Are ya' listenin' Maury?)

"Cats, in other words, are safe. They have no morals, which is one of the reasons so many people love them."

Which just proves my point that dogs are Republi-canines and fe-lyin's are Demo-cats!

Why We Fight

2004-12-03T20:29:00.000-08:00

They start 'em young…

The Omega Human Threat

2004-12-01T13:44:00.000-08:00

Wow! Finally a Homespun Bloggers question I can answer! Sort of…

"What, in your mind, represents the single greatest long-term threat to the United States of America, and what should be done about it?"

Okay. I think our greatest long-term threat are all those
Schrodiner Demo-cats. Ya' know who I'm talkin' about--those Blue State people who think the Red Staters are livin' in some alternate universe and they're the only "reality based community." (AHM and me are makin' a list--checkin' it twice--and thinkin' about puttin' that list of 'em in the sidebar just so we can keep track.)

Now these Omega humans wanna' spend the next four (eight? twelve?) years changin' the "moral argument" into free food, drugs, and sex (rock 'n roll optional) for all, until the whole country's a pack of limp-pawed utopians with everyone lazin' around like fat fe-lyings who've od-ed on catnip.

Dangerous stuff. We gotta' make sure that change never happens! It'll be tough diggin', though, 'cause there'll be lots of fe-lyings hissin' and spittin' in our faces: [Login: be82096@coolgoose.com PW: 2003md]

"A voice-mail message left last week at the Virginia office of Laptoplobbyist.com, a conservative Internet site, went like this:

"Hi, my name is Rachel, and my telephone number is... I wanted to tell you that you're evil, horrible people. You're awful people. You represent horrible ideas. God hates you and he wants to kill your children. You should all burn in hell. Bye."

"Rachel is Rachel Buchman, 25, a regular reader of Laptoplobbyist's e-mail newsletter - and a reporter with public radio station WHYY-FM (90.9) for about three years. And she left her office number at WHYY in the message last Tuesday."

That's no old hippie sayin' that stuff. That's some blue-state media babe pup gettin' paid with our tax dollars. (Actually AHM's tax dollars, but ya' get the idea.)

Used to be ya' had to do some sorta' work to get your LiverSnaps®, and that work was important even if it was only sweepin' streets. Now these kitty-litter clumps are tryin' to change our "morals," sayin' workers are greedy sinners and it's their moral obligation to make sure all those sainted lazy slackers are rollin' in free Fancy Feast®.

I know ya'll might not think it, but I know somethin' about sin and what that guy Jesus said about people bein' poor. AHM has her friends over sometimes to talk about the Bible and natually we all listen. The other day they were talkin' about this moral business of free money for poor people and readin' the story about how some lady poured expensive oil over Jesus' feet. 'Course someone (maybe a bunch) in his circle of friends had to complain about it, sayin' it was a waste and the money should be spent buyin' food and stuff for the poor. [John 12:3-8]

Well, this Jesus told 'em to back off and stop fussin' 'cause the poor were always gonna' be around but he wasn't. What makes the whole story interestin' is who that Bible writer said did the most complainin'--Judas--the guy getting' pay-offs from the religious bigwigs to turn in Jesus.

Doesn't that just figure. The guy tryin' to make givin' money to the poor a "moral imperative" was the same guy takin' bribes.

Some of you human types never change.

Small Crunchy Bites

2004-11-10T01:40:00.000-08:00

Well, now that the election is over and the losers are being properly medicated, I can get back to lookin' for more silliness among you humans.

Everyone out there seems to think the loonie lefties are all anti-religion. Not so. They just need the right kind of religion with the right kind of savior--maybe somethin' like the one led by Pastor Jack J. Stahl. 'Course, considerin' he's from CA, I suppose it's not unusual…

"Dear Beloved Friend,

"I pray you & your loved one's are enjoying peace, love & perfect health.

"My ministry, The Progressive Universal Life Church (aka The Church of Tom Jones) offers Spiritual Degree, Diploma & Ordination Programs by Mail to the members of our congregation. Many of our Certificates are Awarded for Life, Work or Educational Experience! Get yours NOW! www.pulc.com."

Now there's an idea. Think I'll get me one of those. How d'ya' like the sound of "The Reverend Harrison?"

Better get that "spiritual degree" soon 'cause someone needs to exorcise this web site.

"Hello Kitty and friends welcome you to the exciting and fantastic Hello Kitty World!"

I think it's some sort of interactive game but I didn't stick around long enough to figure it out--except to discover there isn't a canine anywhere. Always knew those catnip junkies were livin' in an alternate reality.

Finally, here's what happens when you stick two elderly Omega humans in one car. Ya'd think this couple was from Tennessee. (They're not.)

"A Florissant couple is safe after they were missing for nearly 24 hours. They were finally located early Sunday morning…

"Violet wanted to stop for help. She says her husband didn't, "I told him I had seen two different cops and I think I'm going to one cop and tell him I'm lost and how do you get back to Florissant and, he says no I don't want you doing that."

"The couple also didn't stop to find a place to eat or a place to sleep. Instead they drove through the night. They did stop three times for gas…

"[Violet] says she's going to buy a cell phone in case they get lost again."

And what makes her think hubby's gonna' pay attention to directions comin' from a cell phone?

Schrodinger's (Demo) Cat

2004-11-06T01:35:00.000-08:00

UPDATE: Kellipundit, one of the Homespun Bloggers, pointed me to this collection of Demo-cats' "…naively accepting as valid a 'blurred model' for…reality" over at Right Wing News.

"I cannot possibly put into words how disappointed, angry, and perplexed I am right now. The reported results coming out of Florida and Ohio simply make no sense to me. I cannot comprehend how we could have such a massive increase in turnout and not win the election." -- Skinner at DU

[Will not make snide comments about skinnin' cats in endless ways…]

AHM and me have been readin' a lot about some new buzz words flyin' around leftie circles. They're workin' overtime to figure out why they lost--which they can't--so they've decided to become the "reality-based community."

Now we canines really know about reality. We live in a minute-by-minute reality--if you can't see it, hear it, smell it, lick it, chew it, eat it, paw it, scratch it, poke your nose into it, or lift your leg against it, it ain't real.

Don't think that's the same reality Demo-cats are livin' in, though, at least not according to what this guy Eric Scheie writes.

"Slightly more than half of the citizens of this country simply do not care about what those of us in the "reality-based community" say or believe about anything." -- Eric Alterman

"The latest example of this phraseology ("REALITY BASED COMMUNITY") abounds in leftish circles of the blogosphere, and it involves the use of the word "reality" to denote opposition to Bush, opposition to the war in Iraq, and opposition to religious influences on policy making. The phrase "REALITY BASED COMMUNITY" appears on leading leftist blogs and [T-shirts] are apparently selling like hotcakes:

[…]

"The word "reality" is invoked in a way suggesting that those who use it have a monoply on truth, and it reminds me of the way the word "bright" was used (although the latter never quite got off the ground). It strikes me as a bit arrogant to suggest that anyone who supports the war is out of touch with reality, and the term almost seems designed to mock the "red state" people for simplemindedness.

"It's understandable that the "reality based community" is upset over the reelection of a man they consider hopelessly out of touch with reality -- by people they believe to be out of touch with reality."

Now all this reminded AHM of Schrodinger's Cat. (LG thought she meant the neighbor cat and was out the door barkin' her head off before we could stop her.) 'Course I made AHM show me this fe-lying (which, it turns out may or may not be real) and this is what she read to me:

"A cat is penned up in a steel chamber, along with…a Geiger counter [in which] there is a tiny bit of radioactive substance… [The substance is] so small that perhaps in the course of one hour one of the atoms decays [or], with equal probability, [no atoms decay]. [If an atom decays], the counter tube discharges and…releases a hammer which shatters a small flask of hydrocyanic acid."

And if the atom doesn't decay, neither does the fe-lyin'. So--is the silly fe-lyin' alive or dead? Who knows? Who cares? Ya' never saw me…can't prove it…wasn't my idea to stick the dumb fe-lyin' in a box full of radioactive particles 'til it kicks off.

Oh…yeah…I had a point here. Sorry. Got excited thinkin' of one less fe-lyin' in the world. Anyway, that story is how Schrodinger tried to explain quantum physics. (Have to look into that if it involves disposin' of fe-lyings.) He says it's how to transform stuff in the atomic domain (waaay too small to see) into somethin' that can "…be resolved by direct observation."

In other words, reality exists when ya' actually see it (or smell it or chew it or…well, you know), not by sittin' around debatin' over what it might be. Or: "That prevents us from so naively accepting as valid a "blurred model" for representing reality."

Okay, the way I got this figured, the lefties are staring at their "blurred model" of reality--the outside of the steel chamber--and inside the fe-lying may or may not be dead. Now they sure as hell don't intend to open the box to find out which is which 'cause they know real reality starts when you look at real evidence. And when they do that… Well, I don't know what, but I'd guess a few explodin' heads might be litterin' the landscape.

Besides, they're enjoyin' their hatefest so much they'll never admit the cat's already out of the bag.

Whew! I gotta' stop hangin' around that Mr. Peabody.

Cute House Horrors

2004-10-29T13:43:00.000-07:00

This post at A Small Victory reminded me of something I've been meanin' to comment about.

…"See, I remember a passage in Nostradamus that referenced a curse being lifted at the same time the moon goes dark on a night when an evil man who looks like a fish begins his surrender to his dark lord. I swear, look it up. I would, but I'm afraid to Google something like that. Superstitions and all.

"Anyhow, the clues to the end of the world come out in a slow leak, like gas escaping from a pinhole. Speaking of which, I just saw something that looks like steam rising out of my lawn. Hang on while I go check this out."

No, I didn't dig any holes in Michele's lawn--I don't do diggin' holes, 'k?

Anyway, while AHM and me were walkin' and drivin' around the town, we started noticin' something curious--Halloween has become a big house-decoratin' holiday. Now most places just stick a themed wreath on the door or maybe a pumpkin or two on the stoop. Then there are The Others…

You regulars know my opinion of "cute houses." Yeah, I'm not real big on that exterior decoratin' concept. Makes me think you humans have waaaayyy too much time on your hands. And with the new Halloween decorating craze, some people have waaaayyy too little common sense. Either that or an unlimited credit account with Spencer's Gifts.

The new decoration-of-choice in the past year or so seems to be that barkin' great lighted PumpkinMan. Every time I see one of those suckers I wanna' take a big bite out of it just to see it blow up. The pups think it would be fun to knock it over and chase it around the yard. 'Course we'd probably be pickin' 'em out of the tree branches if the thing exploded in their faces--at least that's what happens with the balloons AHM brings home.

As if PumpkinMan on his own isn't bad enough, the homeowners usually combine him with strings of orange lights around the doors and windows and a few carved pumpkins on the stoop. Still pretty restrained, I guess, compared to The Others…

…like my favorite cute house up the street. I think those people have a busy little elf hidden in their basement that they only let out to strew tackiness far and wide, 'cause I've never actually seen humans outside doin' the work. I suppose it's a change from the bunny-chicken cuteness they usually display, but not by much.

One tree is draped with some sort of white stuff to look like a giant web with a big ole' spider dangling from the edge. Another is hung with bats and skeletons. Fake gravestones cluster on the corner edge of the yard, festooned with twinkly lights. (Well, either twinkly lights or there's a short in the wire somewhere.) They got a coffin leanin' against the side of the house, a whole litter of black cats skulking across the lawn, little pumpkins linin' the window sills, bloody arms and legs draped on the edge of a wheelbarrow, and fake green rubber hands pokin' out of the bushes.

The final touch is the pretend stone paper coverin' the door (so it looks like a crypt, I suppose) and some decrepit life-sized figure sittin' on their outside bench which the pups think is the biggest stuffed dog toy ever made. Every evening we just stand in awe of the blatant display of bad taste. (We have to stand in awe 'cause AHM won't let us off our leashes to do anything else.)

We probably could handle it, except there are dozens of other houses in the same condition! Some of 'em have every window covered with black webs and alternating witch/bat/skeleton cutouts. Another has dozens of luminous plastic skeletons hangin' from trees. Lots of 'em have homemade ghosts made from sheets stuffed with leaves flappin' in the breeze. (The effect of that last one is lost when the leaves start tricklin' out makin' it look like dirty laundry.)

But there does seem to be one outside decoration every one of these cute houses has in common that turns 'em into real houses of horror…

They all have Kerry/Edwards signs on their lawn.

The Alpha and the Omega

2004-10-20T16:08:00.000-07:00

Well, here's someone who gets the bottom line. I've been tellin' ya' forever about needin' to have an Alpha in charge. And it's exactly the reason I can safely say canines are republicans and fe-lyings are democrats.

"George W. Bush is a throwback to the strong male that, until 30 years ago, was the accepted norm. It is only because America's sexual culture has become genderless that Bush's normal masculine qualities are treated with suspicion. The election this November will determine whether the nation still wants to be led by an Alpha male."

If ya' want a strong pack, ya' gotta' have a strong Alpha. Without one ya' don't get the prime huntin' ground and the best food. And other packs will start invadin' and stealin' your stuff until your whole society is wrecked.

"When it comes to making strategic decisions, soft men are useless. More preoccupied with emotion than reason, they seek to please everyone rather than solve the problem. And what do they do when they need to show they're real men? They don't show it; they talk about it."

Uh huh. Seems to me I've heard that idea somewhere before.

"The laws of Alpha behavior are the backbone not only in the world of animals but also of men. Alpha types come in all forms, good and evil, male and female. They are born, not created. They have common traits such as focus, egocentricity, high energy, and strong wills. Great success, in high stake games, is usually the result of Alpha types. Leaders, not followers, shape this world. As in nature, a predator -- the Alpha type -- instinctively smells out weakness and vulnerability. No nation that expects to be respected and feared can be led by anyone other than a true Alpha-type personality."

Yeah, I know I'm repeatin' myself. And I know I'm a lightweight in the political commentary department. But you could do a lot worse than listen to me. (You could listen to those fe-lyings on Kerry's side, for instance.)

"Canines are very society-oriented. We understand that alpha males (and alpha females) are necessary for an orderly society. Of course we do tend to beat the shit out of the other guy to get the upper paw, but hey--we're dogs for cryin' out loud! Still, we have pack laws we follow and a pecking order. Generally we respect our alpha without a lot of major pissing contests. (At least none that he can see, anyway.)"

Anyone getting' the message yet? Listen up! We gotta' have a leader, not a fe-lying schmuck who worries more about rubbin' on the UN's shins than grabbin' the bad guys by the short hairs.

UPDATE: Mr. Minority found proof of the Geek Factor--though there is some commentor debate about whether it should be "geek" or "dork." I just call it fe-lyin'!

The Emperor's Dog Has No Clothes

2004-10-06T21:00:00.000-07:00

I warned you humans about these bogus pet psychics earlier, and here's more proof. This guy actually called a few just to get the lowdown. You've been warned. Now laugh it up, fuzzballs.

"I decide to test pet psychic veracity by phoning several. Since I don't have a pet, I pose as my own dog, who happens to go by my name…

I[nfiltrator]: No! And other dogs don't seem to get along with him. Can you hold on? HARMON, QUIT DRINKING OUT OF THE TOILET! Sorry about that -- what were you saying?
[Pet Psychic 1]: You know what his thing is? He doesn't like rude dogs. He is very proper. Almost like, I guess, a butler. He likes things to be just so, while at the same time he's very lighthearted.

Infiltrator: He's aggressive to Grandma. Should I not like her?
[Pet Psychic 2]: One of the things Harmon said was that Grandma gets a little cranky at times, and so he ... let me look at my notes ... [Pause.] Oh, Harmon's absolutely funny, he just said [the psychic assumes a cartoony dog voice], "She's a bit cranky. I admit I don't get the warm and fuzzy feeling from her."

Why did Harmon chew up my slippers? (During this pet psychic session, I occasionally hold the phone away from me and make barking and yelping noises.)
Pet Psychic 4: I asked him if he chewed up your slippers, and he either doesn't remember it or is in total denial, 'cause it wasn't a big deal for him.
Infiltrator: [Ruff-ruff!] Well, here's the really weird part -- they were slippers given to me by Grandma! [Woof-woof!]
PP4: That's interesting. I'll talk to him about it. I'll tell him he needs to back off. I'll work with him. I often have clients call me two weeks later and say, "Oh my God, I thought it was stupid when you said this to me, but now I get it."
I: [Grrrrr-grrrrr!] GODDAMN IT, HARMON, STOP DOING THAT TO MY LEG!
(Pet Psychic No. 4 recommends some New Age drops you put on your pet's head to "balance out his energy." They cost $17 a bottle. She happens to sell the stuff.)

I believe that my dog was President John F. Kennedy in a past life. Is this true?
Pet Psychic 8: There's a real controversy when animals talk about whether they were a person before. And, I have to tell you, they do that a lot. They say they were nuns, or priests, or warriors. They are not necessarily lying.
Infiltrator: [Getting annoyed.] So was my dog JFK or not?
PP8: [Pause.] Harmon wasn't exactly reincarnated into the president. But their energies really aligned and merged as one.

I'm not sayin' we don't talk to humans--course we do. But we don't play mind games. And ya' don't need no stinkin' "pet psychic" to know my thoughts. Just read my blog.

Channel Surfing

2004-09-28T23:47:00.000-07:00

Cosmo at NRO's The Corner dug up this story:

"Psychic dogs smell Bush victory

"Psychic dogs belonging to actor Sylvester Stallone's mother have projected President George Bush the winner in November, the Los Angeles Times said Monday. The paper said the dogs foresee the president will beat Democratic challenger John Kerry by 15 percent…

"Jackie Stallone has said her dogs channel messages from the spirit world and send them to her telepathically.

Now I'm not gonna' say anything bad about Sylvester Stallone's mother (well--would you?) but there does seem to be a bit of static on those channels. And it says a lot about the Los Angeles Times for printing the story. Does it count as their token "pro-Bush" story of the week or somethin'?

Then again, this psychic, channel the dog--or fe-lying for that matter (although why you'd want to I haven't a clue)--business is, well, big business. Can't figure why AHM hasn't cashed in on it yet. Guess it's too hard to channel anything when you're laughin' that much.

"A couple of weeks ago, my cat Fritz began talking to me. After a lifetime of silence, his comments were surprisingly ordinary: among other things, he mentioned that he’s not very fond of the kibble he eats on a regular basis and would prefer to be on a more nutritious diet. He also said that he would appreciate it if I got him a better scratching post, one that he could really stretch out his back on."

Doesn't that just figure? The idiot fe-lyin' gets the chance to share his deepest thoughts and what does he do--starts demandin' things. Typical welfare pussy. Bet his human votes Demo-CAT.

"For $100 an hour, [animal communicator Maleah] Jacobs will "check in" with a pet to see how it's feeling, what it's thinking about, and help it work through any special behavioral issues it might be dealing with--all over the phone.

Feelin'? Thinkin' about? Special behavioral issues? Get a life, lady. I'm horny, hungry, or sleepin', and if you call me on the phone during two out of three of those, you will definitely pick up an XXX-rated channel! Oh, and I charged $300 for 30 minutes, pups guaranteed.

"The popularity of Animal Planet’s “The Pet Psychic,” starring Sonya Fitzpatrick, which debuted in 2002, is just the tip of the iceberg. A quick Google search turns up a bevy of Web sites offering psychic phone consultations for animals and their owners. Got a passive aggressive Pekinese who won’t stop going to the bathroom on the living-room rug? How about an angry parrot that screeches obscenities at every guest who enters the house? Or what about a crazed retriever that attacks fellow canines at the dog park? Maybe a chat with a pet psychic will do the trick…"

Diaper the Peke, cover the parrot, and muzzle the retriever. That will be $300 please. Oh, and pay more attention to your pet! (That's free.)

"Like most pet psychics, Jacobs makes very few house calls. Instead, these telepathic consultations usually take place with Jacobs lying on her bed at home where she says she can work better. "When I'm alone on the phone, I'm much more centered and grounded and can get the information clearer and quicker."

Well--finally something I agree with. My "consultations" always took place lyin' on the bed at home, too. I got really centered and grounded, but I took my time so my clients got their money's worth.

Hey Ms. Jacobs! I can channel William Shakespeare. "Lord, what fools these mortals be!"

Feathers and Furries and Frogs, Oh My!

2004-09-23T13:19:00.000-07:00

Sometimes life is great! There's nothin' I love more (besides takin' care of terrorist fe-lyings) than watchin' other canines act silly.

Maury was visitin' last week, but he was real subdued since I last wrote about him--for the most part, that is…

Maybe it's because the season is changin' or maybe they know there's another hurricane wanderin' in our general direction, but whatever the reason, critters started findin' their way into the house. Well, not into the whole house--just the sunroom which is our room. (It's all vinyl and wrought iron so accidents don't matter quite so much, and AHM keeps the door ajar so we can go in and out. Doggie doors don't always work with geriatric, visually impaired oldersters.)

It started with The Bird--a little one who obviously mistook all the plant stuff inside for the plant stuff outside. AHM has a drill for when that happens which involves rushin' around slammin' doors to keep the idiot flapper in the sunroom. Mostly we just sit around and watch the show, but this time Maury was here.

Guess he thought AHM had ordered up fresh food for breakfast (we don't call him Maury the Mouth, aka the Eatin' Machine, for nothin') or else he was practicin' for the Olympic springboard diving medal. When that bird zoomed across the room, Maruy went up in the air, jaws snappin', did a couple of twists and even threw in a half-gainer before landin' in the big metal water bowl. You'd be surprised how fast even the hard-of-seein' can find the outside door when faced with a flailin', flyin' Jack Russell and a water bowl tidal wave.

AHM yelled, Maury tried to retreat, which involved much slidin' on wet linoleum with four legs goin' in four separate directions, a couple of belly flops, and a sloppy dive out the door into the outside water bowl. The Bird just sat on the top of the roller shade and laughed. Okay, it chirpped, but it sounded like laughin'. Eventually it came down to sit on the window ledge and let AHM pick 'em up. (She does that kind of stuff all the time--little wild things always let her pick them up and carry them around. Suppose it's a lesser-of-two-evils thing--her or us.)

Lots of nasty words later, AHM had all the water mopped up, and things went back to normal. Maury hid in the dog bed in the farthest corner of the bedroom and my kid Hem would occasionally wander over to taunt him. When that got borin', Hem went outside and found another playmate--a shrew.

We all learned long ago not to bring our dead trophies home for AHM to have stuffed and mounted 'cause she doesn't ever do that--just tosses the critter into the trash bin as if our hard work was nothin'. So now we bring 'em back alive. She's not pleased with that either, even tho' it's much harder to do. So there was Hem playin' on the floor--the shrew would scurry one way, then another, then forward, then back--and Hem would herd him around until the thing was runnin' in circles. (Little Girl thought she'd join in until it headed toward her and she retreated under the bed. She's larger than any of us and is the biggest coward.)

Naturally AHM eventually discovered the unexpected guest and went through the pick-'em-up-put-'em-out routine again (the shrew was staggerin' around like he was on a three-day drunk, so it wasn't hard) and gave us the usual lecture. We all sit politely and listen, of course, but Hem was obviously not pleased. He went back to harassing' Maury and chased him outside.

Everyone sorta' behaved for the rest of the day--AHM had to go to work in the afternoon and while I know she'll always come back, some of the others wonder so they're reeeeal good just in case. We made it through dinner without one fight--even Maury figured out it wouldn't be a good idea to irritate AHM any more--and settled down for the evenin'.

Most of us settled down. Maury, on the other hand, was in and out, in and out constantly, givin' us the antsies with the endless back and forth. Then he came back inside, hoppin'. Yeah, that's right. He was hopping.

AHM was workin' on the computer with Hem and me sittin' close by hopin' she'd let us do some surfin' when Maury hopped into the room. Kinda' hopped, really, 'cause we have polished, hard-wood floors and his paws kept slidin' out in front. So it was more like a hop-slip-thunk into the room.

We all just sat and stared for a few seconds, tryin' to figure out what the hell he was up to this time. Then Maury hopped onto the white sheepskin sleep pad--and shoved his nose right up a frog's butt! Yep--a big ole' frog was now leapin' around the room. AHM almost threw the keyboard.

More shoutin', more Maury skiddin' on the wood and linoleum to get out of the way, and one last wild thing for AHM to gather up while mutterin' somethin' about Noah and the Ark.

But I gotta' tell ya', the show was almost better than my fantasy of seein' the Rockettes Christmas extravaganza at Rockefeller Center.

Tenne(don't)see

2004-09-09T15:21:00.000-07:00

I remember readin' on one of the Homespun Bloggers' site (sorry, I can't remember which one) about all the idiocies that seem to be centered in Tennessee--usually involvin' canine abuse or indiscriminate discharge of firearms or both at the same time.

Now I don't know much about Tennessee. Been through the state once so I probably whizzed on a tree or two, but that's it. All I know is Silly Human Female decided it was a great place to be which is enough reason to add that state to my never-go-there-even-if-dyin' list.

It's a good thing, too, 'cause they're probably runnin' out of room--especially if this guy keeps eatin'.

"When it comes to burger binges, few are in the same league as Matt Ward. The 5-foot-11-inch, 360-pound Ward holds Krystal's current world record of downing 21 of the bite-size burgers in two minutes. The Murfreesboro meat-eater is tuning up for the biggest burger battle of his life: the eight-minute Krystal Square Off World Hamburger Eating Championship, with a first-place purse of 10 thousand bucks.

''I love 'em. I'm a big beef eater, and Krystal is probably one of my favorite hamburgers to eat. They're bite size. They're cheap, not too expensive, so I like it,'' said Ward, 24, a commercial salesman at O'Reilly Auto Parts in Franklin and the married father of two young sons."

Ah ha! Franklin! That's where SHF slunk off to. She's no Slim Suzy herself, so visitors better watch their step or they'll be flattened by all the flab floppin' around.

On the other paw, I don't even want to think about this guy somehow managin' to father two kids.

''It was my wife that got me started. She told me that I should go for the $100 first prize at Smyrna and to go do it for the fun of it,'' said Ward. ''So, now I'm going to the big show in November.''

So how big is his wife? Ya' know, AHM watches our diets like a hawk just so we stay healthy. (Contrary to popular belief, most canines I know do not gorge themselves on food until they barf. That's a rumor spread by fe-lyings.) This poor kitty poop's wife has gotta' be a fe-lyin' lover to be so, well, Machiavellian. Maybe ole' Mark should check the "fatness" of the life insurance policy his Missus took out on him.

"To the International Federation of Competitive Eating (IFOCE) — the governing body that promotes the sport, its eaters and their interests — the upcoming Super Bowl of burgers with its $17,500 purse (top prize and two runners-up) is a very big deal."

Sport? Eating is now a sport? Does the International Olympic Committee know this? And can you imagine the size of that "governing body?"

''It's the largest purse offered in the United States. For us, it's enormous, because it expands our league, the sport, and I think that the Southeast has been underrepresented,'' said IFOCE chairman George Shea."

This guy has one hell of a sense of humor. "Largest," "enormous," "expands our league." Good to know he's got his tongue in his cheek instead of wrapped around a Krystal Burger.

''The competitive eating community is highly focused, and there is enormous excitement among the eaters, who have been clamoring for a national hamburger circuit. The great eaters have already signed up: Cookie Jarvis, Badlands Booker and Sonya Thomas,'' said Shea, who puts the Krystal Square Off among the grand slam of IFOCE events. (The other three are Nathan's Famous Fourth of July Hot Dogs Contest at Coney Island, ACME Oyster Eating Contest in New Orleans and National Buffalo Wing Fest in Buffalo, N.Y.) The IFOCE will sponsor 70 events this year featuring overindulging of lobsters, watermelon, ribs, spinach, doughnuts and pizza.

I will never beg for rib bones again, I will never beg for rib bones again, I will never beg for rib bones…

"Shea estimates that eight of the major known eaters will wind up at the finals, but admits there will be dark horses in the running. ''This sport is wide open by rookies coming out of nowhere. You easily will have three or four come out of the blue and show great ability. It definitely will happen. There's plenty of talent out there that has yet to be discovered."

He should try recruitin' at the local Wal Mart, 'cause pound for pound they've got the biggest collection of rookie overeaters I've ever seen. (Explain to me why they all wear polyester stretch pants? Do none of them own mirrors? I'll tell ya', sometimes I'd like to have a terrier-cam just to video those bottoms from--er--the bottom up.)

"When Ward won at last year's Tennessee State Fair, he blew away seven competitors, eating 13 more burgers than his nearest foe."

Well, at least now we know why there are unexpected earthquakes in Tennessee.

''The money is a big part of the motivation, but the main thing for me is I love attention.''

Yeah, he's getting' attention all right. Probably has every coffin-maker in the country beatin' a path to his door.

"Meanwhile, he's training rigorously for the world championship. ''About once a week, I get a 24-pack of Krystals and go home and time myself. I also drink a lot of water, like two gallons back to back, to stretch my stomach. You have to get through the pain to win.''

Now there's a whole new meaning of the "No Pain, No Gain" mantra.

Fe-lying Terrorists Disable Communications

2004-08-26T13:55:00.000-07:00

Proof they're workin' paw in litter with all those other shadowy terrorists.

"Nicosia (Reuters) - Dozens of stray cats and their fleas put Cyprus state radio off the air Tuesday as fumigation experts were called in."

Fleas! Why did it have to be FLEAS?!!!

"Cyprus Broadcasting Corporation (CyBC) Radio 3 program said only songs and news bulletins would be broadcast for the next 24 hours on all three of the CyBC's radio channels due to "an immediate need for spraying."

They might wanna' think about spaying while they're at it.

"The problem with the cats is causing a terrible situation, there hundreds of them and they are running into the studios and over the roof," said one reporter who declined to be named. "At one point, one cat fell through the roof and landed on someone's head," he said.

Flea-ridden fe-lyings fallin' on one's head trumps dead pigeons every time. Not to mention rats, squirrels, and giant ants.

"They have made a mess and broken everything in my office."

Wanton, mindless destruction--it's what fe-lyings are all about.

"Staff said they were told there was a possibility the three CyBC stations could stay off the air for as long as three days."

Call in the K-9 Corps to send those fe-lying terrorists to the big kitty litter pan in the sky.

The Big Dog Doesn't Have To Bark

2004-08-24T13:28:00.000-07:00

It is really gettin' tough navigatin' through all the dirty kitty litter flyin' around over these Swift Vet guys and, damn, that stuff stings when it nails you in the schnozz--right Mr. Kerry?

The Demo-cats are out there hissin' 'n spittin' 'n howlin' to the FEC that the Vets are really workin' for the President and should be sued or fined or arrested or burned or somethin' just so they STOP advertisin' their objections. Then there are all the pundits-in-the-know (who probably know the same amount as I do, but since they're humans other humans actually listen to them--big mistake, of course, but, hey--go figure). Well they're all tsk-tskin' about how GWB shouldn't have signed that campaign finance reform bill 'cause now it's comin' back to bite him on the ass.

Well, maybe, maybe not. A few days ago, a reader over at that puppy blender's place made a good point (scroll down):

"For almost a year there have been attack ads against Bush. Bush displayed much more character by not demanding that the books and movies and ads that have been attacking him be banned the way Kerry is trying to do. Bush stood up for the rights of even those who opposed him and lied about him.

"Kerry tries to silence any opposition, in much the same way as portrayed in Fahrenheit 451 (the original book). That is frightening! And to make matters worse, the mainstream media is in collusion with him."

I've written before about bein' in show biz and havin' to get along with lots and lots of major egos and listen to all sorts of crap. We canines manage. But once and a while we'd get a cathole who just couldn't hold it together when facin' the big guns.

Now there was this one jerk who always seemed to have a burr up his butt. Whined about every little thing--really was givin' we Aussies a bad rep. (We pride ourselves on being dignified representatives of the terrier nation.) Every time I was in the class ring with him he'd climb down off that friggin' table and launch himself at me, draggin' at his lead, snarlin' and snappin' and yappin' insults for no other reason than I was the top dog to beat. He hated that! AHM and me would just stand there, smilin' and waitin' for his handler to haul him back in line. Sure I was on alert in case the human fe-lying at the other end of the lead let go (which, considerin' the human, could have happened) but I never did a thing. I was the big dog. I didn't have to bark. All I had to do was stand back and let everyone see the other guy actin' like a fool.

Worked every time.

Herdin' The Bull

2004-08-17T11:46:00.000-07:00

This John Kerry quagmire 'bout his Vietnam memories versus the Swift Vets' evidence (something Beldar calls the Tar Baby strategy and fisks the new LA Times piece) is remindin' me more 'n more of how you herd a bull. A lot of bull in this case. And believe me, I know a thing or three about herdin' bulls.

Yeah, yeah, I know--I look like I'm just a little guy and I'm supposed to herd sheep (who can be real pissants when they wanna' be) not bulls. But what are ya' gonna' do when you're a half-grown pup on a CA ranch and the next-door-ranch bull gets loose to wander all over the landscape?

There he was--lost and horny in the middle of our yard, lasciviously eyeing the cows in the next rancher's field. AHM could have tried calling the owner (which you should know from previous readin' she wasn't likely to do) but the bull would be in the field (and the cows) by the time he arrived. What to do, what to do…

Send in the cavalry.

Dad and me were sittin' on the porch watchin' it all and layin' bets on how long it would take the bull to find a way into the field with the cows who (being dumb, not-even-rich cows) were sashayin' their butts all over the place and makin' "come hither" cow noises. (I could probably do a Jessica Cutler riff here, but 1) it's already been done and 2) AHM doesn't want me goin' all "wonkie.") Anyhow, AHM barged out of the house, opened the porch gate, and said "Get the bull." Then she marched over to the gate leading to a small field away from the cows and pointed. "In here, fellas."

Get the bull? Who the shit was she kiddin'? We'd never herded anything except other dogs in the show ring (and they mostly followed us anyway). But that didn't seem to bother Dad at all. He went off like a shot, straight for the bull's nose. Well, damn, what was I supposed to do except follow him? I figured I'd take the end without the horns, though.

That bull didn't know what hit him. Maybe he thought the mosquitoes-from-hell were on steroids or somethin'. He lowered his head to eyeball Dad and got a nip that made him snort crap into Dad's face. While he wasn't lookin' I took a shot at the nearest heel. That made him move forward, but he swung his head around to see what the hell had teeth in the general vicinity of his balls. Dad was right at him again, makin' him turn back to the open gate, so I gave him another reminder on his other heel. He charged forward and Dad leaped up and sideways a few feet closer to the open gate. I took another swipe. Nose. Heel. Nose. Heel. Nip, nip, nip, nip. We were getting' the hang of this herdin' thing.

By now the bull is bellowing and the cows are wailing. Damn, they could wail! Don't buy in to that "cattle are lowing" business, by the way, 'cause there's nothin' "low" about the sound of a bunch of cows in heat being deprived of a potential group lay. Of course just for good measure, we're tellin' that stupid bull to get the hell out of our yard at the top of our lungs. With all the racket we were makin' you'd think someone would have showed up to find out what the hell was going on.

Well, no one showed to help, so it was up to Dad and me. Between the three of us, we left quite a churned up track in the grass, trampled the ground myrtle, uprooted some impatiens, knocked a branch or two off the dogwood tree and pretty much flattened a Rose of Sharon bush. But the final score was terriers=2, bull=0.

Let's see a fe-lying do that!

The Swift Vets seem to be doin' the same thing to Kerry. Nip, nip, nip, nip.

PS. We got rib bones for dinner. And this time they had lots of meat on 'em.

PPS. Beldar links dug up at Instapundit.

Glad To Be An Australian-American Terrier

2004-08-17T01:31:00.000-07:00

Especially when I read things like this.

"A huge ant colony measuring 100 kilometres (62 miles) across has been found under the southern Australian city of Melbourne, scientists said. Monash University researcher Elissa Suhr said the supercolony of Argentine ants was threatening native biodiversity in Australia's second largest city. "

Would that be human or animal biodiversity? I gotta' say there are a few humans in Australia these days I could do without!

"[Suhr] said Argentine ants were ranked among the world's 100 worst animal invaders and had found an ideal habitat in the Mediterranean-type eco-systems of south-eastern Australia."

For some reason this story reminds me of Meryl Yourish…

"Within a short amount of time, more ants appeared in the now-clean space, which was what I was afraid of. I know they lay a scent trail, and I try desperately to kill all the ants so they don't bring back the smell or whatever they do to lead their buddies to food. So I killed those ants, and kept checking. More ants appear. Kill ants. More ants appear. Kill ants. Still more ants appear. Kill ants. I had this imaginary scene in my head, over at Ant HQ:

"Numbers 1304 to 1382, report to grid 71 for forage."
"Numbers 1383 to 1403, forage party hasn't returned; go to grid 71 and see what's happened."
"Numbers 1404 to 1411, go to grid 71 to see what's happened to rescue party."
"Numbers 1412 to 1417, report to grid 71 and bring back news of the last rescue party."
"Numbers 1418 to 1422, grid 71, and stop grumbling or you'll be on larvae duty for the next three cycles."

Yep. That sounds pretty much like what's happenin' in Melbourne all right. They better read up on how to handle the problem.

Monkey Was Livin' High on the Hog

2004-08-10T10:32:00.000-07:00

Had a feeling the story this guy told was a bunch of used kitty litter. Never believed he was keepin' the monkey to cook and clean--in fact, the only monkey I ever knew was less than useless. Had to wear diapers 'cause he wasn't smart enough to be housebroken--just let fly whenever the spirit moved him. A real Monkey Moore.

"August 9, 2004 -- The "disabled" Brooklyn man whose monkey has bitten two kids says he needs his attack macaque to help him cook, open drawers and comb his hair — but here's the ex-con doing construction and even shoveling snow without any help whatsoever.

"The Post has obtained damning photographs showing that Steve Seidler, who spent nine years in federal prison for dealing cocaine, may not need Darla the macaque after all — and that he might have been making a monkey of taxpayers for years.

"Pictures taken over the winter and last summer show Seidler doing yardwork, digging his car out and even building a wheelchair ramp—leading his Mill Basin neighbors to believe his monkey act was simply a dog-and-pony show."

I resent the "dog" part of that expression. My shows were always classy. No jumpin' on a pony's back wearin' a tutu (although I have been known to wear a red tie at Christmas) and wavin' to the crowd. (Hem does the tricks, the little suck-up.)

"Seidler retired on disability from the NYPD in 1984 and has since been collecting three-quarters of his salary for a hand injury — meaning he has been getting $2,200 a month tax-free for the past 20 years. That's a total of more than $500,000 of taxpayers' money."

This is somethin' I know about. Up close and personal. These kind of people need to be caught and cut off. The way humans can figure out ways to steal money from other humans amazes me. And they don't seem to feel at all guilty about it. Hell, even I feel guilty when I screw up.

Ya' know, from what I've seen I've decided humans are either takers (mostly liberal-type people) or givers. Silly Human Female is of those humans who's got what AHM calls "an entitlement mentality." Guess that means she's a "taker." 'Course she always pretended to be a "giver," but, like AHM said once, don't ever ask SHF to "drop by sometime" 'cause she will--and forget to leave. Hmmmm--better wait to write about that or I'll never get to the rest of this story.

"Ever since Darla bit 2-year-old Tommy Romano at a Brooklyn Key Food, Seidler has only been seen leaving his house in a motorized wheelchair, for which he has a metal ramp going up to his house.

"But neighbors—who wished to remain anonymous—said they had hardly ever seen him use the chair before and that he often pushed it up the ramp himself.

"Seidler told reporters last week that he suffers from emphysema, asthma, and poor circulation, which is why he needed the monkey."

When my dad was real sick with a bad heart, he used to have problems getting' his breath. Couldn't jump up on his favorite chair and sure couldn't take walks any more. Ya' don't muck about in the garden and dig your car out of a snowdrift in that condition. Hell, Dad could barely go up and down the outside steps much less build a ramp! (Okay, so he couldn't build a ramp on his best days, but you get my meanin'.)

"Dennis Trott, the lawyer who successfully defended Seidler last year against a health-code violation, said the photos, which he hadn't seen, did not necessarily prove anything. "He could get up and walk for a while, but he would experience fatigue, shortness of breath, and maybe his legs would give out," Trott said. Trott also claimed that some neighbors had personal vendettas against Seidler."

That Trott is a John Edwards wanna-be for sure. Wonder how many taxpayer dollars he got for defendin' that piece of clumpin' kitty litter?

We got a Seidler type livin' in our neighborhood. Really creeps us out, the ugly son of a cat. And yeah, most of the neighbors have personal vendettas against him. Aside from resentin' the dollars they're shellin' out to keep the jerk in booze and cigarettes, the cathole walks around all day harassing women and peekin' in neighborhood windows. Wife says his brain is messed up and he doesn't know what he's doin'. Right--like a fe-lying doesn't know. The cops know what he's doin'. He's got a rap sheet a half-mile long.

And he sure as hell can use his brain well enough to avoid AHM and her handy-dandy stun gun.

Fe-lyings Fail Again

2004-08-05T18:25:00.000-07:00

Well, I finally bit the Dentabone® and visited the ultimate catblogger. The "catcam" doesn't lie. There they were, fe-lyings taking their ease as if our nation weren't under attack from all sides. My God--you could almost say they were Demo-cats!

"Out at the Central Contra Costa Sanitary District's Pacheco plant they've got pigeons. Pigeons for days. Pigeons on the roof, in the I-beams, in the gutters and all over the machinery.

"And where there are pigeons, there is pigeon poop. Tons of it. They know poop out at the sewage treatment plant, and everyone agrees there is way too much of the pigeon type. It streaks the equipment, pollutes the treated water and generally ruins everyone's day."

Somehow I never thought of poop being a problem at a sewage treatment plant.

"So [Chuck Batts, plant general manager] reached what might seem a logical solution -- pigeon-cide. Most of us would agree that it has a certain blunt logic. And so workers, following what is considered by animal control officers and pest control companies to be an acceptable practice, were sent with pellet rifles about six or eight months ago to thin the ranks, Batts said.

"It was not a pretty sight.

"There were dead birds falling from the sky, wounded birds flopping on the ground and blood everywhere. The workers complained."

No shit Sherlock! The mind boggles at the image of a dead pigeon or three landing on one's head.

"Still, no one wanted a daily shootout at the sewage plant. Batts says the pigeon hunters switched to "catch cages,'' which raised a whole new set of problems.

"It's pretty easy to trap pigeons. Then comes the question of what to do with them," says Bill Quarles, executive director of Biointegral Resource Center, a nonprofit pest management program. "At that point, it either gets messy or not, depending.'' Unfortunately, the sewage workers went with messy."

Well, they are sewage workers, ya' know.

"So now what?

"Some communities use hawks…Galan, a trained Harris hawk, is one of the birds that patrols New York's Central Park. Unfortunately, there have been some problems with the raptors. Last year, one of the New York hawks mistook a Chihuahua for lunch. The dog's owner, not expecting the pet to be attacked from above by a flesh-eating bird of prey--even if it was a city employee--was not happy. That's the problem, says [Bill Quarles, executive director of Biointegral Resource Center].

"You're sitting at a bench, eating your lunch and Whap!" he says. "Blood and feathers everywhere.''

"Besides, killing pigeons is no way to solve the problem. They might not be the brightest birds on the branch, but they have reproduction down to a science…

"But Quarles says the best approach is to find the pigeons' food source and eliminate it. Take away their food and water and the pigeons will move on to become someone else's problem. And they are going to be someone else's problem. For some reason, this has been a banner year for pigeons. No one knows why.

"Maybe,'' Quarles suggests, "we don't have enough cats.'' There is a pause. "That was a joke,'' he says."

A sad joke. Maybe what we really have is a bunch of fat fe-lyings lounging on recliners instead of pulling their not-inconsiderable weight.

Of course there is an upside to that--they're creating jobs for humans.

"In January, Key West officials agreed to pay Armando Parra Sr. $20 for each nuisance chicken he caught until Sept. 30. His limit was 900 birds. Parra, a barber and self-taught bird catcher, had rounded up 542 chickens, a quarter of the estimated population roaming about in the city. But, on July 23, Parra turned in his city-issued traps and said he was going freelance.

"I just thought it was a better idea if I went out on my own," he said.

Damn! Why was I never told there were jobs like that out there?

"Parra said the city issued "chicken lists" telling him which poultry to capture. He said the birds' wanderings made his job impossible. "You either catch them or you don't," Parra said. "This thing about getting designated chickens in designated areas, that's impossible."
[…]
"The fowl flap drew national attention, which may have backfired on those who wanted the birds off the streets. "They have become like a mascot. They are a symbol of Key West now," said Katha Sheehan, owner of The Chicken Store, which sells fowl-related paraphernalia."

So we have pigeon poop in San Francisco and chicken shit in Key West (not to mention the rats in Portland). You might wanna' take that information into account when you plan your next vacation jaunt.

And put those lazy fe-lyings to work already!

Squirrels Protest Golf

2004-08-05T16:51:00.000-07:00

Can Augusta National Golf Club be far behind?

Since Cosmo appears to have graduated to handling the deer terrorism issue, I guess we'll have to find someone else to take care of the squirrels. I can see this problem proliferating as more golf courses spring up across the globe.

"Golfers often have to deal with the frustration of watching their golf balls swallowed up by sand traps or water hazards. But at Riverside Golf Course in Edmonton, players have another type of obstacle to watch for – squirrels.

"The furry critters regularly sprint from the bush, scoop golf balls from the green, and run off with them, particularly around the 10th and 18th holes.

As a side note, I was very glad to read the Goldberg family avoided Tennessee during their cross-country trip.

Garden Day

2004-08-03T13:22:00.000-07:00

Well, we had more company last weekend and of course AHM had to do yard work. Maury is a Jack Russell who visits off and on. At least he says he's a Jack Russell, but I think his dog mom messed around with a not-so-handsome stranger when no one was lookin'. Ya' gotta' feel sorry for Maury--he's got a new (human) little brother and both his parents work, so he doesn't get too much attention at home. It shows. (For all of you thinkin' about adopting a Russell, you better be home a lot. They are major high maintenance in the "I-need-attention" department.)

Anyway. I promised weeding and mulching advice this time, but AHM did some bush trimming as well, so I'll toss that in free of charge.

Notes on flowers versus weeds. To us green is green--or gray-green--okay? We don't see yellow and red and blue and white or any other "color," and a flowering weed smells pretty much the same as a flowering flower. So the sooner you humans understand our idea of "weeding" is to thoroughly flatten most everything within reach, the better off you'll be. Now the oldsters will sit on 'em indiscriminately. (Will move for food, though.) The youngsters, on the other paw, prefer a rolling attack. Hem has a particularly unique style, throwing in a few half-gainers and lots of snorting, barking commentary. My advice for any dog who wants to help his/her alpha with weeding? Don't. Or if you insist, at least make sure the water is not on with the hose nearby when you roll into the petunias.

Another thing humans might want to remember is, just because you put a dinky little decorative fence around certain parts of the yard does not mean we will stay out of those areas when a fe-lying stupidly decides to wander onto our sidewalk. If you're grubbing around in one of those places when it happens, get the hell out of the way 'cause we're comin' through.

Side note to pups: Honeysuckle is a vine. If you mistakenly throw yourself into the honeysuckle patch during a cat chase, it will take AHM five minutes with the clippers to get you out. It will take fifteen minutes if you thrash about like a beached whale.

For everyone (except me, 'cause I already know): It's mulching--with an "L"--not munching with an "N." That's very important to remember, kiddies, because AHM gets real pissed if you take a mouthful of that leafy stuff in the pots (even if they are outside) and start chewing. She's not awfully crazy about you chowin' down on the dirt either but at least that doesn't induce shrieking at ulta-sonic frequencies.

For Maury: "Mulch" is the stuff that smells like tree bark. In fact, it is tree bark. Not gum tree bark, either, so you will not be able to blow bubbles after you've chewed it for twenty-seven minutes. (We'll leave any discussion of what happens after you've swallowed it and try to poop afterwards 'til later.)

When the holly bush is being trimmed, do not get within a country mile of it. In fact, just forget that part of the garden entirely 'cause there are always leaves hidden in the ground cover and even the dead ones have the half-life of depleted uranium 238. If you do wander in by mistake, do not--I repeat DO NOT--sit down in the shade unless you have no desire to have pups of your own. (For future reference--biting AHM's hand when she's removin' those spiky leaves stuck all over your balls is not wise.)

And what would Garden Day be without some input from Little Girl? Yes, LG, crickets can jump up your nose if you disturb them. If you shove your front half under the yew bush, you will disturb them. Remove yourself from beneath said bush before leaping up to chase them.

Now admit it--you won't get this kind of practical advice from Martha Stewart.

Rat Terrorism

2004-07-29T13:56:00.000-07:00

You've probably read that quote under our picture at the top. Jonah Goldberg at NRO understands the way of the world when it comes to who's really pullin' their weight in the War on Terror.

But just in case you fe-lying lovers out there think Jonah (and me) are being unduly harsh in our judgment, here's proof cats don't give a hairball about the terrorist threats we face.

"Portland resident Jason Reinhardt watches them on late-night walks around the waterfront. “I can see tons of them climbing up from the roped tires hanging over the river. They’re huge, and they’re not afraid of much,” he said.

"Rats are in no way new Portland residents, but local rat encounters like Reinhardt’s seem to be infiltrating office and happy hour conversations all over the city. Even local exterminators have noticed a pickup in their rat calls.
[…]
“We’re all in shock with the amount of rodents the city has to deal with,” Larsen said. “It used to be that we got more calls once the rains started and the rats moved inside, but nowadays the rodent season is year-round.”

Proof the fe-lyings are falling down on the job. Cats catch rats. (Jack Russells are supposed to do rats too, but ever since Eddie hit it big on Fraiser they're all obsessing about getting into show biz.)

"Bird lovers also may be inadvertently luring rats to their neighborhoods. “You’ll get a single individual who decides to feed pigeons in the park, for example, and rats start migrating to that area and the infestation becomes really obvious,” said county health officer Oxman"

That's what ya' get for feeding the pigeons, fool. And they don't appreciate it, either. All they give back is a white shower of poop. Just ask Rich Lowry over at NRO. ('Course he is covering the Demo-cat Convention so it might have been fallout from some of those shitty speeches.)

“Rodents were approaching people where they ate. When you see rats in the middle of the day, you know it’s bad,” Larsen said. “We set up 24 bait stations and we went through 28 pounds of rat poison in the first two weeks.”

Of course if all those people were walking with a dog they wouldn't have to worry about being approached by panhandling rats. You can't walk a cat on a leash, ya' know.

"But outside of encouraging people to keep their surroundings rodent-free, rats are going to coexist with humans. “There’s not a lot you can do to curb an entire rat population, besides taking away the food source,” said Ruedas, who then joked about unleashing wild cats into the city.

Yeah, cats are a joke, all right.

"But don’t laugh off the cat solution too quickly, said PGE Park spokesman Collin Romer. He’s referring to the notorious pack of feral cats — more than a dozen in all — that inhabit the area behind the bullpen in left field. PGE employees, who dubbed the area “Feral Cat Alley,” have even set up a feline feeding station. “A stadium has a lot of food scraps, and to not see a rat in four years — well, we owe that to the cats,” Romer said. “If the city has a problem with rats, I’d recommend some wild cats.”

Well, stop feeding the deadbeats, you idiot, and maybe they'll have to hunt for their own food like--oh--rats!

"Other creative suggestions to curb the local rat population: mandatory compost caps; a city-led rat campaign to raise awareness among the public; and even feeding the rodents birth control pills."

They'll have to check with the Scots to see if this plan will bear fruit--er--not bear fruit, that is. (No info on whether Planned Parenthood is offering free abortions.)

"So Portland rats — veiled in a kind of urban hear-no-evil, see-no-evil — may for now go officially uncounted."

Kinda' sounds like our immigration policy toward Muslims, doesn't it?

Lawn and Garden Advice

2004-07-18T22:50:00.000-07:00

Since Martha Stewart is out of commission for a few months, I thought I'd pick up the slack to ease the transition.

Today was lawn-mowing day. Not our favorite activity but if AHM didn't push the effin' machine around from time to time we'd all get lost in the tall grass. Little Girl really hates it--barks like mad and tries to attack the mower. She comes from a broken home and is a few scoops short of a full bag of dog food, if you get my meaning.

As I mentioned a couple of posts ago, we're entertaining. For the past few days Miss Garbo has been with us while her humans are on vacation. (We're just good friends, okay?--so you National Enquirer people can stop calling.) Garbo is one gorgeous bitch--elegant, snowy white (when she arrives, that is) with refined features and a plumey tail. She can be eccentric, though, like her namesake. (Speaking of being a few scoops short…)

Lawn-mowing is a noisy, smelly, but generally uneventful activity--if you ignore Little Girl, that is. Except for today. So--because of today--here's the first two of my lawn and garden tips:

Tip #1 for AHM: scoop before you mow so the supervisory crew doesn't get smacked in the kisser with mower-chopped pieces of petrified dog poop.

Tip #2 for Miss Garbo: those pieces are not the newest taste sensation from Kibbles'n Bits®. Neither are they being thrown up so you can leap about like a demented kangaroo, snapping them from mid air and landing squarely on yours truly. That does not endear you to me, no matter how sexy you are. Do it again and I guarantee you will go home with a few less plumes in your tail. Got it?

Next time: a discussion of weeding and mulching--dog style.

Come to the Cabaret…

2004-07-11T13:14:00.000-07:00

I came, I saw, I have a hangover…

Dancing dogs take their partners for centre's canine cabaret night"

"You may not fancy the idea of a tango with a terrier or a polka with a poodle but it wouldn't faze the 200 animal lovers who flocked to a pet care centre in Leeds."

Tango with a terrier? Reality check here. This terrier don't tango! I tangle--and I only tangle with pseudo-studs and fe-lyings who try to move in on my territory. And the occasional hot babe who visits for my attentions…

"Many of them have been literally swept off their feet by their four-legged friends in a doggy-dancing craze which has seen bow-wows bop to anything from Riverdance to Hound Dog. Leading the panting dance troupe in the three-hour "Canine Cabaret Night" at the newly-opened Mypetstop in Tingley was celebrity trainer Mary Ray."

Ooooo. I'm all tingly at the thought of a bow-wow bop… (Okay, sorry. It was too easy.)

"Mrs Ray first began using musical routines to teach dogs obedience in 1990. Since then her "heel to music" techniques have been demonstrated at top dog show Crufts and on numerous TV programmes, including recent hit series Faking It. She and her husband-manager, Dave Ray, estimated there were at least 1,000 dogs dancing in the UK."

Ya' know, once upon a time the sun never set on the British Empire. Now we know why the sun went down. Embarrassment.

"[Mrs. Ray] insisted that her canine choreography did not degrade dogs and that it was not unusual behaviour for dogs to stand on their hind legs. "When people dance around their rooms at home most dogs try and join in," she said, "and getting up on their back legs is quite natural for them."

This lady has it soooo wrong. First, AHM doesn't dance around her rooms. (Okay, she did a couple of times when she was watching that Richard Simmons "Sweatin' to the Oldies" video, but the pups and me handled that. Note for future reference: video tape is much harder to bite through than originally expected--it stretches.)

Second, it is not natural for me to get up on my back legs unless there's a cute babe involved. And displaying my swag for all to see? Not that it isn't impressive, mind you, but finding a raincoat in my size is a bitch.

"The owner of six dogs herself, Mrs Ray said border collies were the quickest to learn steps, golden retrievers looked "nice and stylish" when they got going and poodles loved to act the clown anyway. And Great Danes did a great Scooby Do routine."

Border collies again! I told you they were suck-ups. French poodles? Hell! Where's that groundhog when you need him? As far as Great Danes… From what I've heard, that Scooby Do dog is a total embarrassment to them. And golden retrievers are "nice and stylish?" Suuurre they are--like Chewbacca doing the cha-cha.

"…Beryl Naden, of Kippax, said she would not be dancing in the street with her borderline [sic] terrier Jess just yet. [I think the writer meant border terrier.] The pet-lover, in her sixties, said she and her pet had tried dancing together to Mozart. She said: "We only did it once and we weren't very good at all. But we enjoyed it and will try it again."

On the other paw, they're both "borderline" if they were trying out the minuet. Imagine Miss Marple and Benji…

"…Dorothy Harvey…said she already sang to her dogs so jiving round the room with them certainly would not be a problem. ["Jiving round the room?" Someone hose this writer down, please.] "We have just got a new Cavalier King Charles puppy. He's a bright little thing but I'm not sure which music we'll do it to," she said."

He's a fop. But hey, anything is possible. Dim the lights, put out some fresh-dried liver, and try Ravel's Bolero. That's one of my favorites to "do it to."

"…Mrs Ray is…due to visit the US, New Zealand, Australia and South Korea – where a training centre has been set up at the Seoul headquarters of electronics company Samsung to try to change attitudes in the country towards man's best friend."

Oh damn. That's all we need to do! Drive Kim Chong-il into dropping a big one over the border.

Human Social Disorder

2004-07-10T13:13:00.000-07:00

Sounds like somethin' that should be treated with a shot of penicillin, doesn't it? But everyone seems to be talkin' about it these days, and shutting down their blog "comments" because the debate has come as close to virtual reality blows as it can without entering real reality. Just some samples:

Michelle at A Small Victory (and The Command Post).

"The more I think about it, the more I realize that the problems bloggers are having with commenters is just a microcosm of what's going on at large in the country today."

CJ at The Unmentionables doesn't appear very sympathetic with the post-9/11 righties, however.

"For many of those now complaining of how "personalized" the insults have become--those only-slightly-left-of-center people who made an abrupt right turn after 9/11--the invectives leveled against every Republican and/or conservative from Newt Gingrich on down were just fine--and probably justified.

"Today, with the popularity and influence of blogging, the insults are directed against them and they don't like it very much.

"Welcome to the trenches, people. Pardon me if I don't cry for you… [W]hile your sleep is troubled with nightmares of a return to the 60's, remember you were the enablers for all the ensuing years. Now you deal with it."

Oookaaay

Jim at Smoke on the Water (who sounds like a great guy except for--once again {sigh}--the cat situation) recalls a time not quite so long ago.

"Our Hard Hats of today are beating the Left without having to resort to using pipes wrapped in flags, crowbars or the like. Instead, they're educated, informed, articulate and bold beyond words. And the Left fears them more than they ever feared taking a beating in '68.

"In 1968, the hippies loved having film-clips of their bloodied visages playing on the evening news. Such images turned sympathies to their cause, no matter how wrong they actually were.

"And we're not giving them those images to play with, this time. At least, not yet. And not unless it comes to us defending ourselves, our families and homes and our Nation.

"But if it comes to that, we're ready.

"My God, how we are ready."

The Grouchy Old Yorkie Lady (who isn't grouchy at all but that wouldn't matter anyway 'cause she has DOGS) has it right.

"So while I agree with Michelle that we are standing at the edge of a significant social and political divide, I don't agree that the right is equally culpable in bringing us there, or that we are all "victims and losers" in the cultural war that is brewing.

It sure as hell wasn't right-wing conservatives at that Kerry/Edwards fundraiser conveying "…the heart and soul of our country."

Listen, I'll talk smack about a cat, tackle 'em, tree 'em, and generally harass 'em, but I really don't want them all dead unlike this guy in Washington State. (Citizen Smash warns to click at your own risk and he's right.) Cats have their place--killing the mice and shrews and voles and moles I don't have time to bother with. (What? You think I'm gettin' my paws dirty digging for vermin? That "terra" business is highly overrated.) I'm not too sure the Demo-cats feel the same way about me and mine.

Canines are very society-oriented. We understand that alpha males (and alpha females) are necessary for an orderly society. Of course we do tend to beat the shit out of the other guy to get the upper paw, but hey--we're dogs for cryin' out loud! Still, we have pack laws we follow and a pecking order. Generally we respect our alpha without a lot of major pissing contests. (At least none that he can see, anyway.)

When you're in show business you're up against a lot of alphas. You get twenty of us terriers in a Group ring and you've almost got enough accumulated egos to equal one Michael Moore. Yet somehow we don't end up in a huge snarling, ripping mass in the center of the arena. Oh yeah, we hated each other's guts (especially that snotty dude owned by Dr. William Cosby) but we managed to respect each other's status in caninedom.

And if you didn't? Well, there was one obnoxious Cairn who thought he'd push his luck a couple of times. At Pebble Beach (CA) one year he carried on growling and yapping "Kill the Scottie" and "The Lakeland Lied" and "Impeach the Airedale." His human alpha just laughed and thought it was a great campaign tactic. The sucker got thrown out of the competition on his fat butt.

Demo-cats (and their alpha handlers) should get the same treatment.

Meanwhile, Back at the ALGore (TN) Trailer Park…

2004-07-07T13:22:00.000-07:00

Too much "cuteness" made the wolf crack.

"Couple's concrete pigs stolen; thieves demanding ransom

"Two concrete porkers, each about 1 foot tall, were taken from the Romineses' yard sometime between June 26 and the early morning hours of June 27, according to police records.

"The first ransom note demanded two ears of corn and one ripe mango, said police spokeswoman Kate Novitsky. Mary Romines found the ransom note tacked to the front gate of their home in A and L Trailer Park. Her husband, Bobby Romines, called police. The note requested that Mary Romines deliver the ransom at the front gate of the mobile home park. Mary Romines just wants the pigs returned unharmed, she said. [Emphasis mine]

"The pig statues were taken from her front yard, around a birdbath and beneath an arch surrounded by other cement swine brethren and chickens. The chickens were moved but not stolen.

Ya' know, I can sympathize with the swine swipers. There's a place up the street AHM calls the "Cute House." The only way to describe the place is that it looks like there was an explosion at a crafts fair and all the crap landed in one yard. If it's cute, country, crafty, and cloying they have it—and plunked it down somewhere on their lawn. It actually makes you wish for a return to pink plastic flamingos.

"One pig is presumably male, sporting blue overalls, while the other is presumably female, decked out in a pink dress.

Definitely a "cuteness" crisis. Last Easter the "Cute House" had a big fiberglass-painted-to-look-like-stone bunny pushing a child’s antique wheelbarrow full of plastic eggs with a row of baby bunnies following behind. Painted chicks and ducks and geese scurried through the flower beds and a mass of lilies (probably fake) was arranged around a large, plastic-flowered cross like I've marked in cemeteries. A tree was hung with multi-colored eggs in a bizarre echo of a Christmas tree, and small wreaths full of those barfing plastic eggs and bright pink bows were hung on every window.

All that was in addition to the usual stuff--folk art flags painted on pieces of old barn siding, folk art flowers painted on pieces of old barn siding, and folk art heart and duck shapes cut out of pieces of old barn siding. Then there's a miniature lighthouse with rotating light, a wooden highchair and a child's wagon both holding a pot of some flowers or other, and little garden flags flappin' butt high all over the place. (My butt, not AHM's. Get too close and you get a nasty flap burn.)

The only time I ever got near the front door was one Halloween when I took the pups trick-or-treating. They got totally spooked when they saw two hands sticking up from the top of a tree stump. Barked for a full thirty seconds until I figured out it was a fake-stone bird feeder on a small pedestal and shut them up. 'Course they were so embarrassed they had to almost drown the ceramic bunny-holding-a-watering-can beside the front stoop. Like AHM asked, how many mail-order catalogues had been sacrificed on this altar of "cuteness?"

Now you tell me… If you had to look at that mess of "cuteness" day in and day out, wouldn't you kidnap something?

"On Monday, the Romineses received a cooked pork chop with a note that said, ''cooked the pig.'' Tuesday night, the ''pignappers'' left the Romineses another letter, this time attached to a bag of pork rinds asking if she was scared. The letter demanded a potato, and the note was signed from ''the big bad wolf.''

Gotta' side with the wolf here--canines run together, doncha'know.

Dug up at Dave Barry's Blog.

MORE: Mr. Minority has an interesting take. (Now, if he'd just ditch the fe-lying…)

The New Terrorists In America - Groundhogs!

2004-07-06T23:38:00.000-07:00

As if I didn't have enough trouble keeping the fe-lyings and squirrels in line! Now the groundhogs have joined the terrorist network.

I'm not too sure I would have taken this sucker on, though. He was only after a couple of French poodles and (as you readers know) I still have unresolved issues after the Poodle Bitch incident at that dog show. But if I did, I guaran-damn-tee that groundhog would have been road kill. 'Course he wouldn't have even tried this crap with me around. I have street cred. I have a rep.

Man calls battle with groundhog 'Caddyshack' with Stephen King twist.

"LEWISTON [Maine] — A 240-pound military veteran stands ready to dispute the notion of the cute, cuddly image of the groundhog in the movie "Caddyshack." James Nelson fought off a rampaging groundhog in his back yard, but the critter kept coming back for more after being kicked and hit with a shovel. It finally scurried away after a police officer showed up with a gun.

"The thing was bionic," said Nelson, who was twice knocked to the ground. "It kept going like it was on a mission."

"The episode unfolded late Saturday morning when the furry animal the size of a large cat showed up behind Nelson's home and proceeded to attack his two poodles as his 10-year-old daughter and her friend shrieked from the swimming pool. Nelson came to the rescue and shooed the groundhog away, but the angry critter came back. This time it attacked Nelson, hissing and baring its teeth.

"Nelson gave the animal a kick and it ran away, but the groundhog came back and Nelson whacked it on the head with a shovel. "It was like a bull and matador thing," Nelson said. "I beat up myself trying to fight it off."

"Cleo Dow watched the ongoing battle from the neighbor's lawn. "He really wanted Jim," she said.
When police officer Trent Murphy arrived, the groundhog was hiding under Nelson's garage. It was there that the groundhog launched its final attack, going after both men.

"I said, 'Shoot it! Shoot it!' " Nelson said. Murphy pulled his gun and fired. It was unknown whether the single bullet found its mark, but the animal disappeared into the woods.

"Afterward, Nelson marveled at the tenacity of the animal, which he said was "as aggressive as aggressive can be." "I'm not much scared of anything," he said. "It was more of a Stephen King version of 'Caddyshack.' "

Yeah, and I'm Cujo!

You Don't See Them Renting Cats, Do You?

2004-07-02T11:38:00.000-07:00

Ha! Yet another example of the superiority and multi-national appeal of dogs.

"THE Beatles sang Money can't buy me love, but people are flocking to the "Puppy the World" rental pet shop at Tokyo's Odaiba waterfront park to rent just that by the hour.

"On a recent Sunday dozens of lonely hearts gazed at photos of adorable doggies and then shelled out 1575 yen ($20.99) to take the chihuahua, toy poodle or miniature dachshund of their choice for an hour's walk.

"Upon their return, many give their short-term companions a quick hug and a wave in a misty-eyed farewell.

"For Japanese with a fondness for animals but who are unable to raise pets because of their cramped homes or strict apartment rules, shops like these are a godsend.

"Three of us in our family love dogs, but my grandfather hates them," said a 12-year-old girl who lives with her parents and grandparents in a Tokyo condominium and who rents a dog every week."

I can personally vouch for the Japanese love of dogs. When I was a pup in CA, AHM would take us all walking in a nearby tourist town that was a prime stop on the tour bus route. (Tuesdays or Thursday were pretty much Far East days, depending upon whether the buses were headed north or south.)

Naturally when AHM visited the stores in town, we had to wait outside. There was plenty of shade and benches--and Japanese people with cameras. Now we all knew our job was to be ambassadors (and -esses) for the U.S., so of course we were polite and posed for pictures. We're used to posing for pictures. I mean, just look at that photo at the top of the page and tell me you wouldn't want to point a camera in our direction?

Even when AHM would duck into her favorite hole-in-the-wall, off-the-main-drag café for a quick lunch they'd find us. There we were, minding our own business and catching a few zzzz's on the shady bench in the corner, when suddenly there would be a burst of jabbering and a horde of tourists clogging the alleyway, cameras clicking.

I still wonder how many pictures of us are tucked away in vacation photo albums across Japan--right between Disneyland and Fisherman's Wharf.

Dug up at Dave Barry's Blog.

I like this guy

2004-06-30T01:26:00.000-07:00

I really do. He's got some great stuff on his blog. Like this entry about importing French leeches. I'm not too sure what leeches are, but if the French are sending them over here they must be pretty crappy.

[Leeches are freshwater, blood sucking, parasitical worms that some people think have beneficial medical uses--AHM]

[Bloodsucking parasites? Like fleas!! Shit! I knew the French hated us, but isn't that going a bit too far?--H]

Okay--forget leeches. He also had a great post about the new anti-barbequing building code in Washington state. Anti-barbequing? Geeze am I glad AHM decided not to move to Washington! A summer with no rib bones is like a day without sunshine. Oh yeah--Washington has bunches of those, so I guess they might not notice.

Anyway, like I said before, I like this guy--except for one little problem. His mascot. He's got a fe-lying for a mascot.

"Allan over at the Barking MoonBat Early Warning System suggests that I need a mascot and that Beamer my cat would make a great mascot. I agree with him, and asked Beamer if he would consider it. Of course he said yes,…"

Well, of course he would. Those fe-lyings are just worming their way into all parts of the blogsphere. [Like leeches, right?--AHM] Arrggghhhh! I'll bet that Glenn Reynolds person has a cat too. I mean there must be some reason people call him the "puppy blender."

Still--Mr. Minority has too many good posts to ignore. As long as Beamer keeps his distance…

Busted

2004-06-13T16:42:00.000-07:00

Research Shows Dogs Understand Language

This is something new and different? The only reason we're called "dumb animals" is because we can't speak English very well. And where are the pc police on that insult I'd like to know. I'm not too sure I like the idea our cover's been blown all over the news, though.

"As many a dog owner will attest, our furry friends are listening. Now, for the doubters, there is scientific proof they understand much of what they hear."

We've been understanding humans for centuries, which is more than I can say about humans understanding us. Look how hard it was for Lassie to convince humans Timmy had fallen in the well for the umpteenth time. You'd expect they would have figured it out after the first 387 times, but nooooo.

To be honest, most times humans aren't saying anything worth crap, so why make the effort to answer? (Except for the Jack Russells. They never shut up. Always runnin' their yaps! And it's always "Look at me, me me. I'm great. I’m cute. Gimme a treat. I can bounce higher than a ball. Where's the ball. Throw the ball. See me eat the ball.")

Let's get real, here. How many answers are there for "Are you my good doggie?" "Yes," "no," and "if you think I’m telling you about the mess in the corner, you're nuts."

"German researchers have found a border collie named Rico who understands more than 200 words and can learn new ones as quickly as many children."

Border Collie, eh? Figures. They're such suck ups. In obedience class they were always the ones with their paws in the air saying "Pick me, pick me…" Always wanting constant approval--pathetic. I am a champion. I know I am a champion. I don't need someone always telling me I'm a champion since it's obvious I am a champion. Got it?

"Patti Strand, an American Kennel Club board member, called the report "good news for those of us who talk to our dogs."

"Like parents of toddlers, we learned long ago the importance of spelling key words like bath, pill or vet when speaking in front of our dogs," Strand said."

Yeah, AHM used to do that until she figured out we could spell too. Damn kids let the cat out of the bag just before a walk. (So far they haven't figured out we can tell time, though. Okay, AHM has a suspicion--kids again.)

"Thanks to the researchers who've proven that people who talk to their dogs are cutting-edge communicators, not just a bunch of eccentrics."…

I'm not too sure about that "cutting-edge" business. Most humans never get beyond "cute doggie" or "get the ball." (And what's with that? Hell, you threw the damn thing--you get it!) It's not like we have political debates. Oh, AHM occasionally lets us know who's who but it's not like we can vote or anything. We should, of course. We could nose out the behind-the-scenes shit on any candidate. Mostly we just listen.

"…Paul Bloom of Yale University urges caution. "Children can understand words used in a range of contexts. Rico's understanding is manifested in his fetching behavior," Bloom writes in a commentary, also in Science.

"Bloom calls for further experiments to answer several questions: Can Rico learn a word for something other than a small object to be fetched? Can he display knowledge of a word in some way other than fetching? Can he follow an instruction not to fetch something?"

Rico's got a good thing going. Why bother with the hard stuff when all you have to do is prance around with your toys?

Of course we can do more than fetch--if the right person asks, that is. We don't do things for just anyone, ya' know.

Okay, here's an example. My second-oldest son got sick and started losing his eyesight. Still could do a lot of stuff, except he had some trouble when AHM would take us out to the fields to run. So AHM would pick out one of the other kids and tell them "So-and-so, go take care of your brother." Pissed them off no end to be stuck with the slow kid and they'd mutter all sorts of nasty things. Still, AHM never had to say it more than twice before they went. (And I gotta' admit I was proud of them for stickin' together that way.)

So, yeah--we can definitely follow instructions for something other than fetching. But that's what humans seem to like best, so we just go with the flow. Now where's my liver treat?

The Straight Stuff

2004-06-04T21:56:00.000-07:00

We're totally straight up in the canine universe. (And we guys can keep it up for 45 minutes!) There's us and there's everyone who's not us. Cats are not us. As Jonah Goldberg points out, "…they will eat their own owners if they get hungry enough, after all." They'll live under your roof, eat your food, demand your attention, then claw your butt to ribbons as soon as they get the chance. Not buying that? Then check out this picture. (Warning: this link is not office friendly!)

Canines are small-d democrats. Fe-lyings are anarchists. We choose our pack leaders--our Alphas, human or dog--and give quality service in return. Fe-lyings are the Jessica Simpsons of the animal world, getting by on their cuteness; playing the "dumb as a post" game while using their cuddly, fuzzy bodies for gain--the ultimate welfare pimps who take, take, take without giving. (Admit it--who ever heard of a Guard Cat?)

We know shit when we smell it. (Yeah, I know some of our brain-impaired brethren eat it and roll in it. Can't explain it and won't try. I raised my pups better than that!) Canines know right up front which human is worth listening to and it's not always the ones giving us treats and ear-scratches. We want respect. We want dignity. We want to be acknowledged as the intelligent, discriminating beings that we are. Refuse us and we'll whizz on your shoes.

Political correctness is not in our vocabulary. You smell bad? Cover your balls, 'cause we're comin' for you.