yep yep yep hear's the deal. eye myself personally have never found a kneed four guns and explosives and that sort of thing. they've always been more of a "people thang." eye basically attribute the existence of guns to the fact that anything as slow and dim as humans could only evolve with the aid of something like a gun ore they wood have starved to death long ago. every scene won of them trying to catch a chicken? of course if eye was human i'd want something that was a bit moor accurate than a gun, given all the collateral damage that results from humans in search of food, but, hay, if the n-r-a says they kneed guns and bombs and biological weapons for hunting, they no best.

now if they could just get smart enough to stop hunting in schools, mauls, gas stations and foreign countries they'd probably bee better off. this crude behavior has inspired a couple of dogs to use a bit of tough love with their humans with impressive results. first there's this english setter who took a shot at educating, which eye thought was pretty cool, but there's nothing like a boxer that knows how two retrieve to really teach his human a lesson.

hear's a pitcher that's been showing up inn my email lately four sum reason. got this won from a friend of buster. eye can't imagine what kind of tragedy this pack of dogs must have lived through to find themselves in such a pathetic weigh -- hiding there identities, going door-to-door with large vegetables inn there mouths. if this isn't an argument four welfare reform, eye don't no what is.

Our most brilliant good friend Buster sends along a referral to the following brilliant bits of brilliant cat slander: Viking Kittens and Independent Woman played by kittens. These are both brought to us by the brilliant Joel Veitch, whoever he is. Mr. Veitch obviously shares our belief that when viewed through the human gaze, a cat is only useful as a comic construct for the purposes of postmodern deconstruction of contemporary music, which can then be reconstructed using a pseudo-amateur anti-methodology that leverages a technological neo-colonialism reified by third world pestilence and greed. Without a doubt the post-profundity of this work predates anything that's been done since its creation.

breaker breaker good buddy. this is a call four sonya. i'm trying to establish telepathic communication with sonya. is sonya out their anywhere? sonya? this is woody, good buddy, tell me you're out their.

when eye say "sonya" i'm referring to sonya the pet psychic who is apparently getting paid a bunch of bucks to tell people what their pets are thinking. she's got her own tv show, her own web site, speaking engagements, advertisers, the hole nine yards. most dogs are lucky two have one yard, let alone nine. she probably makes 60-70 million purinas a year (granted that's in dog money).

if you spend some time on sonya's web site, you learn a couple of things. first, that most, if not all animals (i.e., like me), are capable of communicating telepathically with each other and any biped who happens two wander buy who can handle it. and second, ewe learn that most, if knot all humans, with the exception of sonya, are miserable failures at animal telepathy, which is why, apparently, they pay sonya the big bucks. (people on hallucinogenic drugs don't count. ewe may be telepathic, but the reception quality sucks. and besides, ewe forget all the important stuff. and forget about eddie murphy. that was a movie, fool.)

sew i'm basically calling ms. sonya out. if your such stuff, then ewe should bee getting in touch any moment. lettuce telecommune, compare notes about chigger, gilda and anyone else you might bee listening in on. as an added bonus, i'll tell you what that makeup technician, the one who was acting so nice, was really thinking about ewe during your last tv show.

and four the rest of you, eye wood point out that you can put your faith in sonya, and hope she's knot just snowing you for the money, or, you could contact year good buddies hear at blogdogs and find out what your pet or your pal is really thinking from animals with guaranteed psychic ability. don't believe me? try this. get up right now. go to your refrigerator. grab a big chunk of beef (raw or cooked, doesn't matter) and offer it two your dog. i guarantee you that dog's first reaction is going to be "how did you no?" so there. trust me.

sew get this. hear's a couple of scientists who will probably get a no bells prize or something because they can prove that dogs know how to count. well duh. of course we can count. how dew ewe think we no when it's time to eat? after all, you won't let us carry watches. so as soon as eye finish a meal i have to start counting the seconds: one mississippi one mississippi one mississippi one mississippi, etc. and when eye finally get to one, well, then i know it's time to eat again.

It pretty much goes without saying that humans aren't exactly the most attractive animals on the planet. Large bare patches of skin, that ungainly upright posture, glaringly white teeth and funny ears are just some of the visible characteristics that take some getting used to. But for most dogs the most ungraceful aspect of the human appearance is the nose, or, more accurately the lack of a nose. Sure we get used to it, but how many of us really understand the human nose and how it functions?

Most dogs assume that the human nose, like the dog nose, is for smelling scents. And it's possible that once upon a time that was right. But even a casual observation of human behavior indicates that they have little, if any, ability to smell. Have you ever seen one human smell another human's crotch or butt? Doesn't happen. (Well, there was that one guy, but he seemed to get hit a lot.)

Humans are so totally oblivious to the scents of other people that the only way they can tell if another human is in heat is to get the person drunk and see what happens. And they're always getting into fights because they can't smell trouble coming a mile away.

You've probably played the smell game with your human, where you take a favorite shoe or remote control device and hide it to see if the human can find it. They rarely can. And even if you play the game over and over again, they never get any better at it.

Dog scientists who study human cadavers point out that the human skull just doesn't have room for enough nasal sensors. The human nose only accommodates a nasal passage a few inches long, whereas the dog's longer nose with its convoluted nasal passages would reach nearly 1500 miles if stretched out in a straight line. (That's in dog miles.)

As humans have evolved their skulls have gotten increasingly bulbous in the area behind the eyes where it seems to have no useful purpose, while the nasal area continues to shrink. There is even evidence to suggest that humans have a tendency to ostracize other humans with large noses, refusing to breed with them or put them in the centerfolds of their magazines. They seem to want to maintain just enough nose to hold their glasses, and then go to surgeons to get the rest removed.

There is probably no way to reverse this negative development, but we can learn how to make the best of it. Here's a few tricks that can help your human get a little bit more in touch with what's left of his or her inner smell.

For starters, always remember to breathe directly in their faces. If you sit quietly at their feet, they're never going to know that you just cleaned out the cat box for them.

Humans can rarely smell anything that's not extremely close to them, so what professional trainers often do with their humans is pay careful attention to the paths they walk, and then leave large piles of do-do where humans can step in them. This way the human will carry your scent around for a while and develop a deeper understanding of just who you are and what you smell like. This is especially effective if your human wears those waffle-soled hiking boots.

And when you can't take your human to the smell, you can always bring the smell back to your human. Say you're out running around and you come across a deer carcass that's been rotting in the woods for three or four weeks. If you run back to the house and try to tell you human, you can bark and jump and roll over and beg and do everything but write "dead deer" in the mashed potatoes and he's not going to come out and look at what you've found. But if you roll around in the juicy parts of the dead deer and get the smell all over your fur (and remember, human smell is weak, so you've got to REALLY rub it in) and then go home, nine times out of ten your human is going to jump up, grab his own nose to indicate understanding and scream "Omygod, Woody found a dead deer!"

There's just nothing more rewarding than a moment like that when you've actually managed to establish direct communication with your human, however brief. It makes it all worthwhile, even the bath afterwards, and that's saying a lot.

We heard from Spot the White House Dog again recently. She was claiming that K-9 intelligence had reason to believe that a deer cell in our area was developing weapons of mass destruction and she declared a Code Fuchsia alert. (Like color-coding means a thing to a dog.) My response was "Well, doh." Deer ARE a weapon of mass destruction. They'll eat the wings off your fleas if you let 'em. Anyway, after a long and sometimes heated debate, Woody and I voted not to grant Spot permission to initiate pre-emptive strikes. The last time we tolerated pre-emptive strikes around here our friend Buster tried to kill all our ducks. He said they were planning to invade the garden. Yeah, right.

Those White House dogs can TRY to scare me, but I know that in reality its all about controlling the global market for crude protein. Whoever controls crude protein controls the price of dry dog food. And whoever controls the price of dry dog food... Well... Enough said.

Whew. Sometimes this politics stuff gets me so worked up I catch myself thinking about it. But after a quick reality check, I'm back. Since I mentioned the ducks, I thought I should probably offer up a formal introduction to the extended pack, as it were. Of course there's Woody and myself. And you might be familiar with Gilda by now. She's one of two cats we tolerate, the other being Guillermo. Gilda's been around forever and must be 150-200 years old. Guillermo is at least a thousand. He's black and deals in the dark arts. A smart dog doesn't mess with Guillermo.

Then there's the three ducks: two white ones, a male and a female we call Barry and Betty White, and a mallard we call Fillmore. (Pre-Buster, there used to be six ducks.) They live in the pond with all the frogs. And finally, there's two people we call Stump and Tweet. They're okay, but if I knew then what I know now I certainly would have enrolled them in obedience school when they where younger.