Celebrating Another Trip Around the Sun

The Boss turned “Double Nickle” last Sunday and he hasn’t been the same since. Mind you, I still get my kibble and get to curl up in his chair when he’s not around, but somethin’s different.

First, and I’ve been noticin’ this for a while, he doesn’t have much patience for ant piss. You carry on about it or make him dance on pinheads, and he just peels you down to nothin’ with a glance. He saves the words for the compliments.

Secondly, he works like fiend ‘til noon then grabs the leash and we’re gone, top down in the rain, the whole bit. I know I probably looked worried when those teacup-sized raindrops pelted my furry face. I was worrin’ about him. He just smiled. By two, he’s back at the desk. I needed the rest of the afternoon to shake off the experience. Literally. Kinda fun, though.

The birthday was different, too. I wasn’t too crazy about the Super Soakers and the Ping-Pong ball-squirting race in the pool, but I liked the homemade chocolate cake just fine. Whoever said chocolate is bad for dogs was a selfish bastard.

The Boss is right, you only live once. Cats are lazy because they have nine lives—plenty of time. Me and the Boss, yeah, we know what’s goin’ on.

Exotics

The Boss spotted a note in the local hipster newspaper about an “Exotics Show” at an American Legion post/bar in a sleazy part of town.

“Chewey, wonder if they’ve got any Brussels Griffon there.”

No, Boss, just no. I gave him the ‘look’.

“Snakes and such, I know, I know, but let’s go check it out.”

“NO, BOSS, JUST NO.”

We went anyway.

First bad sign: We were the only foreign car of the few in the parking lot.

Second bad sign: The doors to the main hall were locked.

Third bad sign: The Boss was undeterred. We went into the bar.

Generally speaking, with me, you gotta walk into the place like you own it, especially if you’re an Alpha dog. Works most of the time— ‘cept when the place is crawlin’ with Dobermans.

Before the Boss can react, I’m on the dogs with my sniveling, guttural growl, showing my row of irregular sesame-seed teeth and rice-kernel canines, enough to make any beast back up a bit. The show stopped them in their tracks, but the big one must have had the brains. He looks at my eighteen pounds and does the math. I’m good for another second or two. I redouble the growl and add a mad-as-hell tremble. If only I could rotate my head 360 degrees…

By then the fat fuckers at the bar are yellin’ at their dogs to chill, the Boss finally figures out there’s no snake show and we’re outta there.

The place was full of ‘Exotics’, though. Next time, I’m wearin’ my spiked collar.

Tomboys

Tomboys… I like Tomboys. Always have. The Boss does, too. Frankly, they’re refreshing.

As an eighteen-pound good-looking Brussels Griffon, I enjoy a good roll in a pile of whatever as much as the mutt next door. So when I spot a Tomboy in jeans with muddy knees, I feel an instant affinity. Most girls want to dress me up in doggy clothes and parade me around the park like a painted pony. A tomboy wants a dog to ride in her pick up’s cab without fallin’ out or barkin’ like a fool. She’ll share a three-day old sandwich found under the seat with me without breakin’ off a piece first.

Now mind you, I enjoy a linen table cloth and a fine filet whenever the Boss conjures them up, but when I go drinkin’ and girlin’ about, I sidle up next to the next available Tomboy. Girly girls get sloppy drunk, drink that sugary sweet shit and squeal at the sight of a snake, whether reptilian or human. Me and the Tomboy order it straight up, wipe our bottom lip with the back of our hand then race one another snatchin’ the snake. She’s got dirt under her nails, like me, and will make love behind the first dune without a second thought. My kind of girl.

As for datin’ advice for the Tomboy, a few words. The world’s full of pansy-assed men with fragile egos, all neutered by their mothers. You’ll have to be patient. If he’s unembarrassed and buys you a drink after his dog pisses on your ankle, he’s a keeper. I’ll make sure you’re not wearing your only pair of Ferragamos before I lift my leg. If he gives you the game of your life in tennis but loses without getting mad, marry him.

Short Hair Rules!

The Boss is kinda funny ‘bout hair. Don’t matter what a woman’s got goin’ on, if her hair ain’t right, the Boss don’t give it a second look. I think he’s a bit harsh seein’ what I look like after I roll in a good, aged pile of dead possum or after a foot-deep dig in his garden, not the clean sandy stuff, neither, but the nasty composted shit under one of his prized plants. I’m talkin’ ‘bout seriously BAD hair. Smells real bad, too. No woman gets over on me. Not one of ‘em.

But I can see his point. Hair says a lot about a woman. Sassy, coy or ordinary. Real quick it says it, too. Clothes make a statement, but if the outfit ain’t backed up by a good doo, the girl ain’t got it goin’ on through and through. Hair proves she knows her shit.

Some times the Boss lets my hair grow down over my eyes. He thinks I can’t see nothin’ like that. I see fine. Champagne-colored furry glasses, just enough tint to keep it real.

Got me thinkin’, though. Short hair on woman can be shaped in all sorts of ways that long hair can’t.

I see a lot of women wearing long stringy mops parted high above their noses like curtains of some Broadway show. Is Johnny Depp gonna jump out behind those long strands or what?

The Boss really hates bad hair. When he goes to get me groomed the other day, I can hear the woman moan through the glass door even before we’re inside. “Short on the upper body, leave the wisps behind the legs so they wave in the wind when he runs. Schnauzer cut on the face. Good luck on the beard. He doesn’t like the beard touched… No, you won’t distract him, either. He doesn’t bite, don’t worry.”

After he picks me up, the Boss took me down to his watering hole to splash down a few. In walks one of his girly-friends from the past with her posse of post-thirty babes all decked out. She gives him the look, you know the one: “I’m hot shit and you ain’t. You, with that pansy-assed dog.”

Now let me say a thing or two about the Boss. You can insult him all day long but insult his buds, his woman or his furry friend, and you’ve just stepped in a big pile, the kind that squeezes up over the top of your shoe. I was worried.

He goes off, fully wound up, ready for a real throwdown. I lay back my ears, so they’re outta the way when the fire comes. Only he doesn’t drop an H-bomb this time. He stands and walks right up to her pretty little face. I batten down my ears for the worst. I know my collar’s got the home number. Surely his woman will come down to the county lock-up and spring me…if not him.

He smiles. Then he lays into her. Fit, proportion, color, quality of fabrics and construction, shoes, hose, right on down to the twenty-two cheap rings on her fingers. You name it, he was on it. If you asked me, I don’t think this one look was worth a thousand words.

Then he’s on the hair. He waves his hands all about, lifting and pulling it away from her face and off that awkward shoulder length, then turns to her girlfriends: “What’d you think?” They all nod. I send out a little yip. Well done. She hasn’t slapped him… yet.

He whispers something in her ear, she squeezes his elbow. I know the Boss. When he’s on his game, no one can give a thorn with kiss quite like him.

V-day Gifts for the Girl

“Dudes, listen up. There’s not much time and most of you are already screwed. (Not literally in this case). If you haven’t been paying attention to what turns her on, you’re hopeless. Let a dog, but just not any dog, spell it out for you:

1. Cards and candy are so ho-hum and what your father always did. Break the mold.

2. Flowers are always fine, but avoid those plastic-like red roses that look fake and have no smell. Calla lilies with baby pink roses. They don’t have to be red, just smashing. (You’re not done yet…read on.)

3. Anything you buy for her at Home Depot is NOT a V-day gift, unless it vibrates and does nothing else, like tear something up or drills holes ...and you don’t want that.

4. Don’t buy anything you like.

5. Don’t buy anything at Victoria Secret. I know, I know. First, I doubt you really know anything about how to fit a woman. Different cuts flatter differently, etc. Don’t even try if you don’t know what I’m talking about. Secondly, see #4 above. Third, your idea of sexy and her idea of sexy are usually polar opposites. Give it up unless she likes the sluttish.

6. Don’t buy her a gift card to Victoria Secret. Nice try. But don’t. Trust me. A $100 gift card to her favorite shoe store is far better if you have to go that way.

7. Although a card with two tickets to NYC for the weekend is way cool (and not a bad finish) something has to be immediate about the gift.

8. Spend some money, cheap skate.

9. Jewelry can be tricky. Steal one of her rings you’ve seen her wear and take it with you for size (Don’t try this with clothing). If you’ve never seen her wear a necklace or a bracelet, what makes you think she’ll wear it now? If she doesn’t like it, it hangs out in the jewelry box and all you got was an expensive one-time lucky homer. You can take it back but that just spells failure. Small is fine, a little bigger is better, but something the size of Texas means it's fake. Go for the real stuff.

10. Dress up if you’re going out. Leave the jeans home for at least one night. Show her you mean it.

Where does this leave you? With Home Depot and Vicky Seeky off the list, I’m afraid I haven’t helped.

Every woman is different. If you’ve been with her any length of time, you should have a clue or two. It would have payed to watch her shop, as boring as that is to most of you. You probably can’t read her closet, heavy in silk, long in the pastels, shoes paving a path to hell. But here’s the thing, buy several gifts. Even if they’re all wrong, it shows you took an afternoon and went to more than Home Depot. You spent time on her and that, friends, says a lot.

Then There's Ga-Ga

Me and the Boss get Ga-Ga. Really, we do. Not so sure she can sing or tickle the keys without getting’ all tangled up, but she can put on a show. And she can make a circus out of any stage. Barnum and Bailey got nothin’ over on her.


She's a fine lookin' woman. Most of the time, though, she looks like a glittered up fire hydrant to me. Just show me where I’m to lift my leg and I’m all over it. Literally.

Ga-Ga is to costuming as Adam Lambert is to a high note.


But without Ga-Ga, we’d be adrift. Like a lost puppy. We need a planet too far to prove cashmere is heaven when it orbits our skin.

Beyonce and all those other Bojangle jokers try to take their shit over the top, too, but the Boss tells ‘em to keep it in the closet. Looks like they’re tryin’ a bit too hard. There’s only one Ga-Ga to a generation. Madonna killed his. Ga-ga gots this one.

So what if it looks like a mirrored disco wingback chair.

But here’s the thing. A lot of runway shit looks like it was run off the road. I mean really, a fine woman is gonna wear these duds? Where? Certainly not to soccer practice. But someone's gotta shine the light out too far beyond reason, reality, comfort and good taste. Why not?

Beauty is the benchmark. Ugly is still ugly... but when it's outrageous, it can be fun... for a night. Just don't sit down. It's easier to leave and get outta my sight.

Better than an All-night Drunk

Every now and then, the Boss takes me along on a business adventure. This time it’s downtown to a warehouse where he’s designin’ a nightclub for some fool with more money than God.

The place is a wreck, but the Boss don’t care. He knows the fire marshal will back him up and as long as he’s got enough auto sprinklers, he can kick-ass the design.

So we get there and I’m tryin’ to be cool, but I just smell rats everywhere. I follow him inside and listen while he’s going on with the owner ‘bout how sexy the place will be, etc. I don’t care. The music’s probably gonna be too loud most of the time for me. I’m more interested in the dumpster out back where the construction workers are throwin’ their leftover lunches. I know there’s rats in that dumpster. Gotta be.

So I slip out the door and circle the dumpster. Shoulda known the fuckin’ feral cats would be on it before I could get a good sniff in sideways. Nonetheless, there’re pussies, sittin’ on top of the dumpster walls waitin’ for me to kick some rats to the curb. Man’s game. Step aside.

There’s a lot of paint and spent sheet rock mud and well, let’s just say, I come up smellin’ and shitty lookin’. Ever seen a Brussels Griffon lookin’ like Casper, the Friendly Furry Ghost, all dolled up in white. Well, no never mind. I’m busy flingin’ rats outta the dumpster for the cats to snatch away. Sorta like fishin’. Snag ‘em and jag ‘em. Then throw ‘em back for more fun. The cats don’t see it that way. They’re haulin’ ass away as soon as they snatch a broke-necked one. I’m about wore out when the Boss whistles. Now, mind you, I look like shaved shit, only much more stinky. I’m havin’ too much fun to care.

The Boss shakes his head. I know the hose is next. Don’t care. Had a helluva time. No hangover in the mornin', either.