Vote for Your Favorite DogCatcher

“Boss, why are people hatin’ on these candidates for Prez?”

“Well, they think they’re right about their’s.”

“What is ‘right’?”

“Hmm… that’s a good one.  Seems it has a lot to do with…”

“I read nobody’s been a dog catcher. Not one of ‘em.”

“That’s right.”

“Oh, I get it.  If you ain’t a dog catcher, you’re right.”

“Yep, Chew, you got it.  Good boy.”

 

“Boss…?”

“Yeah, Chew?”

“I ain’t seen a dog catcher. Not a real one, anyway, only in the cartoons.”

“No?”

“So does that make everybody right?”

“Pretty much.”

“You know you’re just shitting me to get me to shut up.”

“Pretty much.”

Reunion

The other day, the Boss said something about going to a fortieth year high school reunion.

“Any babes gonna be there, Boss?”

“I suppose. Is that all you think about?”

”That ‘n’ your filet mignon.”

“Chew, I remember takin’ you to your first rescue class reunion…”

“How could I forget?”

“Why the sad face?”

“Mi-shu wasn’t there.”

“Now tell me again, was the Shih Tzu the fortieth or four hundredth? I remember them by their breed, not the names. Only way, sorry.”

“Boss, you remember the names of yours.”

“Not so many as you. Who was your favorite, Chew? I bet the one you don’t talk about.”

“Boss, you always so spot on? Ever give a guy a break? I’m a dog, remember?”

“You remember, Chew— and won’t tell.”

I whispered it to myself. Like syrup on the tongue. I slipped up and howled it out all lonesome like: “Chlooooo-eeeeeee.”

“Pretty name. Alone, it sounds like enough description.”

“Yours, Boss?” Couldn’t drop the code of Buds-for-Life here and give him a wide pass from the close truth. Not the Boss.

“You know people are reading this.”

“Pussy.”

“Chewey! Dammit! We’re just talkin’ here.”

“Here, kitty, kitty…”

The Boss got all stirred up like he’d just spilt beer on his Sunday shirt. “And I’m listenin’. Out with it!”

“I don’t know, Chew. It’s not like that. Not so easy. There was the girl that made me notice girls. I knew right then and there what eyes were really for. But there’s also one that was my best friend in another universe. Then the one that first kissed me, I mean really kissed me. Then, well, you know.”

“Pick.”

“Never.”

Redheads Are Allowed to Wear Red. They have a license for anything they want.

Redheads don’t mean to be ballsy. I mean what with that Cloroxed-bleached white skin, fried when flashed with five seconds of ordinary sunlight. Cut’em a break.

Redheads are forced to be something. Come on, you gonna stand there with your head on fire and say or do nothing. Best do something! It’s genetic.

There’s an expectation. Blonds look sexy. Brunettes can be beguiling. Redheads are. Straight out of womb.

So that’s why we try to rein them in. Can’t wear red, girl friend. No ma ‘am, no way.

Poppycock. You show’em girls.

OK, the boss has had his fun. Step aside, amateur. These are real readheads. SEXY!

A chorus line of 'em.   Jealous, now, big fella?     

Happy F'n New Years

“Chew, what if you took your soul’s ear to a real blues club on Happy F’n New Years Eve?”

He closed his eyes, self-sedating.


Yeah, you know it’s “wrong”. Yeah, you know…everybody else is… Everybody?

First, it’d be quiet. Quiet so’s you can suck the marrow out of any subtly there is. Yeah, that kinda quiet. A dead man frozen just short of six feet under on a dead-still wind night quiet.

Then, it’d be SEXY DAMN GOOD, whatever IT was. No matter how you mix up those words, it’ll never be all bad.

Now that I have your attention. Full attention. I thought I’d pull down some 25year old in flame-charred oak casks for your ear buds or flood your crystal glass snifters decanting each ear with mello-eaze. Here’s the play list:

1. Start off with “Have a Little Faith in Me” by John Hiatt. A classic sound: The piano and human voice. Alone. Together. Nice. Don't worry, Joe Cocker's coming.
2. Next, “Can’t Make You Love Me” by Bonnie Raitt. Heroic blues. Tebow blues. A good soul cleanse, just in time for a new year... and another season.
3. “Feelin’ Alright” by Joe Cocker. The irony. Don’t forget this confused crazy downer disguised as a battle cry.
4. “Wild Horses” by the early Rolling Stones. A James Brown kinda slow dance. Baby. Baby. Skinny white boys can try, cain't they?
5. Right turn, “The First Day in August” by the bare, innocent soul Carole King. A thirty-something then, remembering what it was like to be thirteen before even then. I love the over-production, perfect for our witless hope.
6. Now stay with her, different flavor now: “The Boys of Summer” by Don Henley, the only romantic without a heart. Tin man. He still nails it. As did Tin Man.
7. Right turn again, [you’ll pick it up by the end] “(So You Want) To Make a Memory” by Bon Jovi. His name alone makes girls twenty years my junior swoon. Got me with just one line in this one. Love to rewrite the rest.
8. Time to take a breath. “Lily Was Here” by the sensuous reed perfectly named Candy Dulfer. What is it about taking a clarinet out of young girl’s hand and replacing it with a sax? She’s perfect for Bill Clinton. [Made you laugh, sucker.]
9. In to the deep now. Like darkening deep water. “Tin Pan Alley” by Stevie Ray Vaughn. Forget the subject matter. Listen to the man and his guitar, the pace is barely breathing. It’s good and late now. It ain’t over yet.
10. “Texas Flood” by my same boy. Yeah, he made the list twice. Listen to this one twice, too: Once for the man singin’, the second time for his soul guitar.
11. Nostalgia is cheap. So why not use lots of it and wrap this up? [What an economy, huh?] Billie Joel’s “Captain Jack”. No one can take you down and back up so fast in five minutes. All is right, again. Guess I’ll go to bed. New Years Eve.

May the night be the way you want it. A good, simple measure of any good night.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=McI1NJ_iG24 "Tin Pan Alley" Stevie Ray Vaughan & Johnny Copeland - Tin Pan Alley (Montreux) part 1

Nothing tastes as good as writing well.

Pippa - I'm workin' on the plane ticket...

They say it takes a new love to heal a broken heart. Good bye, vet tech. I’m all over this Pippa chic, now that her sister’s off the market.

The Boss thinks I’ll just get a chin tickle and a pat on the head. But hey, I set my sights high, big guy. Imagine me with a personal masseuse, all chilled out in a cat fur-lined dog bed, visiting the palace for a night. The Boss has got to be jealous.

Easy for a weasel like me to weasel his way into the situation. I’m cute; that’s all it takes to score as a dog. I know the play.

Only one thing: She’s in England, and I’m in Florida. Takes a grand to fly me over there. The Boss gives me that look when I shinny up next to him and give him those puppy eyes. “Hell, no,” is all he says. “Unless I go, too.”

Maybe I start a letter writing campaign: “OK, your sister, the one that just got married to that balding prince guy (His brother looks like a lot more fun), she did it right with the dress. Simple. Clean. No need to do weird when you’re beautiful. You were pretty balsy, too, dressed in white but what the heck, you’re fine and probably next for a ring anyway so why not practice some in the uniform.

“Your sis is pretty good looking, perfect taste in clothes, simple kick-ass wedding dress. But I’d like to see her in some holey jeans, a loose fitting blouse, sitting sideways in a chair in a silly chic pub somewhere, hair down over one eye, but hey, don’t fault my fantasy.

“You, on the other hand, as the younger, I bet you got to fly under the radar with the parental units. Bet you’re a lot more fun. I mean you’d probably let me show you a thing or two ‘bout flingin’ rats and huntin’ mice. Macho stuff, then drink me under the table. Yeah, that’s a fantasy, too.

“Anyway, girlfriend, I gotta go and ply the Boss for a plane ticket.”

The Annual Visit to the Vet

So I see the leash come out at an odd time this a.m. and figure something’s up. Sure enough, annual trip to the vet.

Now folks pokin’ and prodin’ on me for 20 minutes then puttin' me back in the cage for another few hours until the boss comes and gets me is not what I call a “spa day” by any stretch, but it was so worth it.

The cage keeper had on this divine perfume. As soon as my nose layed on to the trail, I stuck it up proud and high to sample the delicate notes drifting in on the cloud. Truth be told, I pranced in place a bit, enough to get a tickle under the chin and pat on the head.

I was smitten. Look, there’s no accounting for love. The school girl, miss-goody-two-shoes, barely legal type has always made me drool when nobody’s lookin’. And in this “Staff Only” back room, nobody was lookin’. I gave her a soft lick on her hand and cracked a scraggly tooth smile, the kind that’ll melt any heart. Bingo! I got a scratch behind the ear and a treat. Cardboard crap but I didn’t care. She turns to go. I let out a sharp, short bark, do another little prance when she turns back. She walks up to the cage and scratches my nose. I hate that but I didn’t care.

She goes for good this time. I know it, too. So what’ve I got to lose? I send out a melodic, lonesome howl, like I was try’in to win American Idol on the last note. Didn’t work. She came back holdin’ a cat, sort of like adding watermelon balls to ice cream. I’ll try to remember, though, when she was pure and had no cat dander on her.

Weezy

I don’t ask the Boss for much. I’m a dog. The most I can expect is kibble, a kind hand and warm place to kick back. The Boss gives me all that and more.

When I first laid eyes on lil’ “Weezy” on the PetFinders website late one night(http://www.petfinder.com/petdetail/18020716?mtf=1), my little heart went pitter-patter and my cigar stub of a tail almost shook off. I had to ask the Boss.

He, too, liked what he saw and despite the fact we’re a fairly flush in canines ‘round here, he sent an email to the lady up in Georgia where Weezy was. He didn’t hesitate. I couldn’t believe my eyes as he texted away. The Boss… yeah, he’s all right.

Then we got the bad news: The lady won’t accept out-of-state adoptions. The Boss casually broke the news to me but I could tell he was disappointed that he had to disappoint me. I didn’t eat for almost a week. The Boss worried.

So he told some friends. “The Sisters” manage a boutique hotel down in Holmes Beach, Florida. They’re NASCAR, former bartenders and biker babes. They like the Boss and saw he was sad about the whole thing, so next thing you know, they’re packin’ up to head up to Georgia. Warmed my heart to know he’s got buds like that.


The lady up north is lucky she doesn’t live closer. Weezy, darlin’, a whole lotta folk down here loves ya. Wait 'til more of our friends hear 'bout you.