Mirror Site

To make it easier for Foxfire and other browsers to read.

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Servin' Up Supper to Service Dogs in Iraq

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!"

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HAHAHAHAHA

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.

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Attention Firefox/Netscape Users

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--

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I, Canine

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.

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Homespun Symposium X

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.

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Why Dogs Don't Climb Mountains

'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.

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Whack-a-Gopher

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.

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Memos to Self

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!

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Stupid Human Tricks

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…

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…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.

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