Going to the dogs….

It’s been awhile since I’ve posted anything (besides the sports quiz and the answers), as the “Real World” – my actual life, not the MTV show – has kept me somewhat busy. Work has been hell; though unlike Tom’s job, no one shoots at me while I’m doing it. I see in my absence that Tom has been holding up his end in the posting department, with even a foray into sports commentary….

Lynda and I celebrated our “1 Year Dating Anniversary” the other night; I gave her a certificate for a massage, a dozen roses, and a package of rawhide bones for her dog, Tipper. I have a habit of becoming the best friend/chief spoiler of the pet of whomever I’m dating: 5-6 years ago, it was Lothron, the ferret of my then-significant other, who was on the receiving end of my attention. I even wrote a song about him:

Do you have an easel
So that I can draw a weasel
Who looks just like my little buddy Lothron?

‘Cause I cannot bear it
To be far from my favorite ferret
He’s the best little buddy that there ever has been

(it went on from there…)

Lynda has asked my to pen a tune for Tipper. I’m working on it….

Lynda went out of town weekend before last, and I volunteered to go over to her house twice a day to take care of the canine. She and her friends were a little worried because I generally let Tipper get away with all kinds of stuff Lynda would never allow: jumping in my lap, licking my face, giving her extra treats, etc. They were convinced that Tipper would be spoiled rotten upon Lynda’s return. Lynda has also expressed concern in my potential parenting ability, seeing the way I let the dog walk all over me. I made up my mind that I would enforce the needed canine discipline, and would keep a running account of my dogsitting sessions to impress Lynda with. Let’s see how I did:

Thursday night, 6:30pm -- OK, here it goes. I will be a tough disciplinarian. I will talk the talk. I will walk the walk. I will eat lightning and crap thunder. I am the master of all canines I see. Tipper will snap to attention when I call. She will sit. She will stay. She will roll over. She will call me “Daddy Dearest”. Now, where are those wire hangers?…

6:32pm – Tipper looks at my with those big eyes, with tail wagging, and brings me a ball to play fetch with. All attempts at discipline fail. Resolve crumbles. I’m toast. I let her jump in my lap. I let her lick my face. I let her jump on Lynda’s bed. I let her crawl in Lynda’s bed. I let her wear Lynda’s clothes. I let her sell Lynda’s car and spend the money on Milk Bones.

Friday morning – I take Tipper on her morning walk. This morning would be tough, as it is “garbage collection day”, when everyone has their garbage out on the curb for pickup. Per Lynda’s instructions, I am careful to not let her eat any small pieces of paper or trash she finds along the way. In fact, one time Tipper grabbed a little scrap of paper, and I reached inside her mouth and pulled it out!!! Of course, I was powerless to stop her from digesting two tennis balls, 2/3 of a set of Encyclopedia Brittanica, and a small raccoon.

Friday evening – I have often said that Tipper has the energy of teenager, and what does every teenage girl want on a Friday night? A slumber party !!!!! We have 8 neighborhood dogs over (all female)…they order pizza, do each others’ hair and nails, and talk about boys. I chaperone. After I fall asleep, they sneak out and toilet paper the house three doors down (the home of that snooty French poodle).

Saturday morning – Feeling that Tipper needs intellectual stimulation, I take her to Borders bookstore. She browses for a while, then picks out Stephan Hawking’s “A Brief History Of Time” for herself. I pick out “One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish” for myself. I lose track of her for a while, but find her in the checkout line. She had been over at the rather extensive magazine rack, and picked one out. I’ve always thought it was strange that men’s mags have women on the cover while women’s mags have….women on the cover. My theory is that men buy their mags because they contain what they want, and women buy their mags because they contain what they want to be. Tipper had chosen a magazine that I’m sure she thought was about what she wants to be: an untamed female dog whose masters never discipline them. The masthead read:

Wild Bitches

No One Tells These Girls ‘No’ !

That was all that was visible above the plain brown wrapper. I told her that the magazine was probably not about what she thought it was about, and to make sure, I looked at every page of the magazine, two or three times, from various angles. I told her I’d keep it for her until she’s a little older, and she would understand what it was about…

Saturday evening – I take Tipper to a sneak preview of “Eight Below”, about the huskies stranded in Antarctica. I get a Diet Coke and Milk Duds, Tipper settles on JuJu Bees.

There was one scene in the movie where the dogs spot a flock of birds and “make a plan of attack". The lead dog faces the others and barks “Woof!!”, which in canine obviously means

“4 of you encroach silently from the north as I circle around to the south; I will charge them, forcing them in your direction; you attack in a ‘V’ formation and knock them out of the sky with your paws; we will share our ensuing feast with our pack’s injured members…”.

To this, Tipper offered a hearty “Woof!”, which obviously meant

“I find your attack plan basically sound; however, with the wind blowing south the birds might catch your scent; perhaps planning your attack on an east-west axis would be prudent…”

Then she stole my Milk Duds.

Sunday morning – Tipper goes with me to church. She followed the mass OK, but she is a terrible singer. She also turned the “Sign Of Peace” into the “Sniff Your Behind Of Peace”.

Sunday night – Lynda returns. Order is restored. Tipper has promised to keep quiet about the weekend if I sneak her extra treats.