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.

Thanks for the Cherrios

The Boss has been pretty busy of late and hasn’t had much time for me or to reflect on how good he’s got it, so I thought I might toss out a bone or two and acknowledge all the goodies.

First, I’d like to thank the Boss and his woman for rescuing me from that polyester-wearing, frumpy woman who baby talked to me all the time. Pleeeeezeeee!

Secondly, I appreciate the few crumbs of Cheerios in the morning. It’s a small thing, really, most significant things are small, but if you ate the same nutritionally balanced nibble every day, a little nugget of human food goes a long way.

Finally, I’m thankful the Boss doesn’t get mad at me when I snore at night. It warmed my heart that he got up and slept with me on the living room couch the other night when I apparently was imitating a Mack truck. Kinda nice to have him all to myself. A small thing, really.

Sadness -- a rich feeling

I miss hangin’ with the Boss. He’s on a job outta town and blows in the house now and then to say ‘hi’ to his woman, and he’s off again. I’m happy for ‘im, though, because he seems happy. Me, I got the armadillo to chase and the dog next door to put in his place.

All the same, I miss the boss. I like the way he fuck’s with me: Calls me “Fur Face” and swats my butt when I’m a little tardy to the door. I go outside, I do the obligatory thing, but I’d rather be curled up against his leg, snoozing while he watches football.

Simple thing, really. Life is full of simple things that slip by often unnoticed. Me, all I got is time to watch ‘em slip by. No job, other than chase the armadillo and check out the chicklets. The Boss ain’t got time for the chicklets. Makes me sad.

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.