Mention The Word “Poop” And I’m There!

Paying attention in school was never easy for me. My mind would wander… thoughts of all my lonely squeak toys back home. Giggling to myself when I’d think about how all the hounds in class spend all their free time chasing tail – their own! I’d look longingly out the window at all the free space that I could be wander---- SQUIRREL!  See what I mean? I’m easily distracted.

Math especially through me for loop. Who decided that things have to always add up? Whole numbers?

Besides, I’m only interested in the numbers 1 and 2. As in the answers to the word problems “How many best dogs in the world who happen to be named Ria are there?” and “Including Mom & Dad, what is the average number of humans the best dog  in the world who happens to be named Ria can wrap around her little finger at any given time?”  And, of course, number 2 is also the less-fun way of saying poop.

Math and poop? I’m getting to that. All week, the mean one here has been walking around the house muttering to himself, furiously scribbling formulas and equations with Dry Erase markers on one of those clear Plexiglas boards that you see in movies and on TV so that the audience can see the pained-leading-to-ecstatic looks on the actor’s face as he has that eureka moment of mathematical ecstasy. Forget the fact that  it’s really, really hard to read all the crap on a clear board, what with all the stuff in the background, and focus on the drama! It’s really dramatic – with a capital “D”. On TV, anyway. Around here, it’s just a lot of mumbling and frenzied marker squeaking. Dumb. With a capital DUMB.



Today, though, when I got back in from Wegman’s, I  noticed how everything seemed different. Everything in the house had been straightened up. Gone were the piles of Algebra and theoretical Calculus textbooks. The floor was no longer littered with thesis papers stolen from the Princeton library. Empty shots of 5 Hour Energy Drink (regular and sugar-free) had been conscientiously placed in the recycling bin. What was going on here? What was happening?

And then I saw it. The board.

It had been wiped clean, meticulously so. So clean I could see my reflection in the mirror at the other end of the house. (Because it’s see-through, remember?) While I was out, there must have been some sort of breakthrough. An epiphany, maybe. Or worse! Maybe he had given up! Packed up all the nonsense and thrown in the towel on his great quest for answers…

And then I saw it. The board.

There was something written on the board. (It’s hard to see stuff that’s written on a clear board, remember?) Had it all come down to the one equation that had been meticulously written on the board? And as I nervously went to touch it, to caress it, I realized that it had been put there, not in the doubting  impermanence of a Dry Erase maker--no! It had been committed to foreverness by the powerful business end of a Sharpie. A chisel tipped Sharpie. A black one. Serious stuff.

Could it be as simple as this? Could it all come down to the uncomplicated, yet truly powerful pronouncement of fake-science I saw before me?

Maybe. Just maybe. As God is my witness and Dog is my co-pilot… I present… The Equation…

FOOD + TIME = POOP

To be continued…

Recipe For Disaster?

I’m not one to complain. Really, I’m not. I try to give hints as to how I feel about certain things. Sometimes Mom & Dad pick up on them, sometimes, not so much.

I think they know by now, for example, that when I go to the front door and stare, I’m NOT trying to tell them that I need to go out.

I’m obviously just suspended in a dream-like trance, visualizing myself a wolf, as pack leader, tracking and trailing Liam Neeson through the blizzard’s whiteout as he and his rag-tag crew of outcasts and miscreants struggle to survive the harsh forces of nature after their visually stunning plane crash into Alaska’s treacherous frozen tundra.

(Spoiler alert: Other than the absence of a few flashback scenes of Liam Neeson and his wife on a bed of flowing, glowing 300-thread-count ultra-white sheets, my daydream is scene-for-scene the same as the plot of the movie The Grey).

One thing they’ve been a little slow to pick up on is this – I’m not really excited about my dry dog food. And have I hinted: I take a few bites out of the bowl when they first put it down, then wander away. I show them YouTube commercials where the dogs come barrelling around the corner of the kitchen knocking sh*t over as they race, legs akimbo, towards their bowls. I time my naps so I’ll be alert and ready to pounce when I hear that Meow Mix dispenser hit the floor. I eat poop.

It’s not that I don’t like Chicken Soup For The Soul For Dogs, it’s just that there’s so much more yummy stuff around the house all the time. Treats-a-plenty! Barbeque! Underwear! Cat food! Cat poop! (mmmmm, cat poop.)

If I hold out long enough, something sweet this way comes!

Something’s different, though, here at “C-Max” (Courtney Lane Maximum Security Pet-itentiary). I actually look forward to mealtime. I eat it all up in one sitting – watch the video – and even lick the bowl! I don’t even mind that they’re stingy with the treats here.
Now here's where you may think I’m paranoid, but I think they’re putting something in my food. Maybe it’s more sinister than that. And now you’ll think I’m crazy, too, but it’s like they've put a spell on me – some sort of Magic?

Or… could it be… both?



















Are you kidding me? It's just dog food? Well that's just NOT cool. Where's my sexy, voodoo, 12 Monkeys, paranoid, spy thriller mash-up story? Jeez, I'm trying to blog, here!

Greetings From New Jersey

It’s damp and rainy here in New Jersey. The pretty man on TV with the highlights and the hazel eyes, Sam Champion, says it’s about 45 degrees, but with the drizzle and the damp chill, it doesn’t feel like it at all.

I guess I shouldn’t complain, though. At least it’s not the un-Godly 90 degrees and sunny, like it is in Costa Rrrrrrrrica.

Who needs those waves of warm ocean breezes rolling over you from the tip of your snout to the end of your tail as you dip your paws in the cooling pools of turquoise splendor left behind by the final crescendo of Mother Ocean’s morning glorious high tide?

Not me, that’s for damn sure! Don’t worry about me. I got me a bed, some water, and two squares a day.

Gotta go. The screws are really big on schedules around here. They’re done flippin’ my cell. Hope they didn’t find my shank. (Or my autographed 8x10 of Sam Champion).

Here we go again!

Sunday, February 12
7:20 pm
Dear Diary,
Daddy just packed all my stuff and me into the car -- Mommy looked a little weepy and said she couldn't bear to come along...
Could this be it? The day they'd decided that they had had enough of my shenanigans?
So far, though, I haven't heard any mention of being driven out to "the farm" (thank God!).
7:30 pm
Dear Diary,
Whew! False alarm! We just got past the hyper-vigilant screening process and entered the gates of Renaissance -- "A Private Community". Seriously?
Whatever!
I'm just glad to find out that I'll be staying with Rose and Joe for a bit whilst Mom & Dad do their gallivanting-slash-globetrotting thing in Costa Rrrrrrrica! Surf, sand, food, drinks, music, zip lines... hmmmph, sounds terrific. Have fun, you two.
Luckily, the worst thing that happens here is these two keep calling me "Roxanne" by mistake. Oh, and the mean one keeps trying to turn me into a trick monkey.
Oh, and did I mention "the schedule"? Oy!
More on that next time...