No I'm not back. This is just a maintenance post. I'm still here. Still retired. Still not posting. Just had to check in for the benefit of the knuckleheads.
First, for those of you who care, I'm doing fine. Pretty lame in my back hips, the eyes aren't much good any more, but after nearly 15 years I know my way around here pretty good and my nose and ears are just fine thank you and that's what's important. The hair is going white, at least those parts of it that weren't already white; but I can still enjoy going for a walk, or a car ride, and I still got my appetite. Got to go swimming last week and that was great.
But I ramble.
Anyway, I am not here to revive this blog. As I said last year, and the year before that, it's done. Over. Dead. It's not on hiatus. It's passed on. This blog is no more! It has ceased to be. It's expired. It's a stiff. Bereft of life, it's kicked the bucket, it's shuffled off this mortal coil, run down the curtain and joined the bleedin' choir invisible!
I leave it here for archival purposes, or as Woody (RIP) would have said, arch-rival porpoises.
Some folks still come by for the dog-age calculator. Others like to visit the C.M. Coolidge dogs-playing-poker page. Some folks visit because they can't spell any better than Woody used to could, so when they Google "Chiwawa" it brings them to blogdogs.com. And finally, there's a refined pack of dogs and dog lovers who come here just to luxuriate in the forty-plus dog years of fascinating writings by Woody and yours truly.
We was pioneers. There's no denying it. How can you tell? Just type "blogdogs.com" into your browser. See where you end up. We're not "Goofus the Blog Dog" or "blogdogs1643.com" or "blogdogs.edu" or "blogdogs.blogger.com" or whatever. There's only one "blogdogs.com" and it's me and Woody. Period. And always has been.
Did we invent the dog blog? That's for dog historians to determine. But young pups these days have no clue what it was like back in the day, designing for 640-pixel-wide, 16-color monitors; waiting for the dial-up modem to connect so you could spend the next three hours uploading a thumbnail picture. There was no "embed this video" YouTub, no Facebutt, no Twitturd. Laptops weighed 75 pounds and had three-inch monitors. There was no wifi. We had to attach our computers to big heavy expensive cables and coffee shops weren't good for anything but getting coffee. We had to press our blog entries into clay tablets and then upload them using ropes and pulleys, AND WE LIKED IT!
But I ramble.
Anyway, here's the deal. In spite of the fact this blog is artifactal, there's a number of folks out there who continue to write to me even though they've obviously never read a single friggin' post. I'm flattered. But in almost all cases I'm getting the impression that they're not really paying attention. For instance, here's some nice woman named Rebecca:
Hi Chigger and Woody,
My name is Rebecca, I am from http://xxxxxxx . We sell a variety of dog care products....
I came across your site today while browsing the Web and fell in love with it! I found it extremely full of fun! I did no't (sic) know it was possible for a dog to strain their tale (sic) for wagging too hard. Ha!
We would like to write a blog post telling our customers how valuable your site is on our blog, http://xxxx. It would be wonderful if you could feature XXXX on your own site. This can be a great opportunity for both of us to increase our brand exposure and get the word out about our sites.
What my dear friend Rebecca apparently didn't notice is that
Amy wrote recently to say:
"We evaluated your blog based on the following criteria: Frequency of Updates, Relevance of Content, Site Design, and Writing Style. After carefully reviewing each of these criteria, your site was given its 6.0 score. Please accept my congratulations on a blog well-done!!"
Amy also offered Woody and I the opportunity to put their logo on our web site to draw attention to our 6.0 (out of 10) score.
6 out of 10? Huh? I mean even if the writing and design deserved perfect 10s, we couldn't score any better than 5 when you factor in zeros for frequency and relevance. I mean there's nothing there. It's a void! Do the math! Argh.
I work for LinkStar, a leading broker of online advertising, dealing with many thousands of independent webmasters worldwide. We currently have a client in the Gaming industry for whom we are looking to acquire advertising from quality websites.
We've had a look at your site and think that it would be a good match for our client, whose target demographic is similar to your own.
What demographic is that? Dead dogs? People who read neglected blogs? What?
We are proud to announce the publication of Blah Blah Blah by award-winning journalist Blah Blah and world-renowned photographer Blah Blah. ... Once you've had a chance to read more about Blah, it would be great if you could help us spread the word by posting a shot of the cover on your website or in your newsletter. Please let me know if that's something you would be able to do.Yes, Julia. I'm pretty much blind and, oh by the way, I'm a dog. So by all means send me the book. Include a thick slab of meat and I'll put you in my next newsletter.
Hi Woody and Chigger,
First off, great blog! I discovered your BlogDogs Blog a few weeks ago and have been checking back on it regularly. Wow, the adventures of Woody and Chigger are quite fun to ready (sic) about! You're doing a wonderful job of building community through your blog. Keep up the great work.
My name is Ryan and I am working with a Portland, Oregon-based company that is preparing to release a blah blah blah...
If you're interested in being one of the first to review this new blah and post your thoughts on your blog, I'd love to send you a complimentary promo.
Checking back regularly, Ryan? What? Reading the same year-old post over and over again but never comprehending that part of the text that says Woody is dead and I'm not posting any more?
But I ramble.
Anyway, for those of you I know and love, this is a bonus post.
It's also a chance for me to see if the next entrepreneurial fool who writes wanting to promote a product or exchange a link or kiss my smelly butt for a favor has actually read anything that's written here. If that describes you and you're reading this far, I've got two words for you: Gerret Swirled. Gerret is a capitalist whore. He even tries to eat out of my food bowl before I'm done. He'll say good things about a dead cat if there's a treat in the offing. Check him out.
if you still write me with some bullshit email about how great my blog is and would I do this for that, I'll know you never read even the first post in the blog and I'll just roll over and go back to sleep.
While I'm pretty much enjoying life in semi-retirement, (in an arthritis, gas, stiffness, bad breath and an annoying new puppy sort of way) I would be remiss if I didn't return here for a moment to inform loyal readers that there's a new dog -- well puppy actually -- here named Gerret and he has started his own blog. In a word he's young and headstrong and self-important, and, well, insolent and boastful and egotistical and just plain cheeky, not to mention arrogant, conceited and over-confident, and he lacks the wit and wisdom that Woody and I brought you over the years, but he calls that "being new school." At least he's house-trained.
Anyway, check him out at http://www.blogdogs.com/gerret. And be sure to sign up for notifications there, because this is the last time I'm gonna talk about that annoying little fart here. I hope.
Woody's the only dog I ever knew that sprained his tail from wagging it too hard. That's the dog's honest truth. Ask the vet. That tail could knock you half way to Sunday if you accidently got in the way just when he was communicating his joy for the moment. Woody died yesterday. He was my friend. I miss him so terribly much. I kind of don't feel much like writing any more.
snort snort snort. ok, granted yesterday was a pretty ruff day. butt eye don't feel quite sew bad today, awl things considered. took a short walk, end yes, eye went two the post office end peed on the liriope. sea the photo? ktsfasod! end its a good thing to, because in spite of my entreaties from a couple of daze ago, nobody stepped up end peed four me.
chigger axed me if after eye'm gone will eye send sum kind of sign. eye told her eye'd make the son come up every morning. eye figure that'll keep her thinking four a while. she gets sew serious.
sew sew sew eye half bean doing sum research on google two find out what is next on my agenda. their pretty much seams two bee a consensus that awl dogs go too heaven, where ever that is. sounds a lot like hear. as long as theirs lots of dear end knot two many squirrels, eye'll be happy. eye'm wondering if stump end tweet will bee their too, but my research suggests that that's knot at awl a dun deal. why dew humids make everything sew complicated? anyway, keep an eye on them four me. eye'm hoping two make a list of awl the chores eye'm leaving behind, butt eye'm pretty tired write now. sew if eye don't get back hear again, somebody has got two got too got to go to the post office every day end pee on the liriope. eye half done it every day four eleven years end now its somebody else's responsibility.
ow, ow, ow. eye half 2 confess that eye'm knot feeling very whale these days. tired. knot much of an appetite. pain in my guts, its hard two type. the vet says its a two-more. a very nasty two-more. (end btw, chigger informs me that that's knot the kind of vet we r supposed 2 support, sew please ignore that yellow ribbon tag on my collar. eye'm as confused as ewe r. butt its just as well. these vets stick me with needles two "help" me. yeah write. eye'm sure the other kind of vet is nicer.)
anyway, the vet says eye got maybe days, maybe weaks left. stump didn't take that news very well. what he does knot realize, is that, conveniently enuf, that's weaks end months inn dog years. sew eye'm making the best of it. butt still eye figured eye'd better right while eye can.
furst of awl, if their our any dogs out their, let me tell ewe this: when ewe get (sic), the food gets a lot better. the cans disappear, end its know moor "by-products" four this wood-ster. (our ewe as tired of eating chicken feat end cow hoofs as eye am?) this is sum good stuff. it tastes like chicken. yeah, reel chicken. except when it tastes like reel pork, or reel beef, or reel turkey, or whatever. very, very, very, cool.
only problem is that their tends two bee foreign objects inn the food. these objects our usually like little round things end taste bad. teh trick is two slide them up into yer lip end then go outside end spit 'em out wear the squirrels will find them. it makes the squirrels behave reel peculiar-like. (as if squirrels dent always behave peculiar.)
butt enough about me. eye wanted two share my thoughts about hunting. their knot very complicated. eye figure that a dog's gotta due what a dog's gotta due. butt their are sum dogs ewe just half two admire. eye thought eye was a good hunter, butt eye can't hold a candle two this super-alpha dog. well, eye can't hold a candle anyway, butt ewe get the idea.
ok, eye'm tired. moor later.
arff, arff, arff. eye notice that this is the season four making best end wurst lists. thought eye'd dew my own. their knot very long. inn fact their only won thing. butt hay, inn dog numbers that's at least seven things.
bestest place two spend a weak end:
wurstest place two spend a weak end:
sew their ewe half it. isle bee back with a gnu list next year!
owl, owl, owl. two knight, four yor listening engorgement, eye wood like to present chew with my contemporary stylings on a traditional holiday favorite from my rapper tore. just press play.
fyi, fyi, fyi. it has ochre'd two me that sum of ewe readers mite be relatively knew too this blog end their-for unaware that my birthday is coming up. yes, that is write. next thirst day, november 30, eye will tern 65 years old. if ewe donut no what two get me, police refer two my amazon witch list. yule find a link in the write column. end donut worry about bing late. it doesn't bother me as long as ewe send something. anything. reely.
we, we, we, mess your. (pardon my fresh tickler.) today eye was reeding a treat us awn the film-making stile called cynícál vérité, wear won stroves four candid reelism buy "showing subjects in everyday situations with authentic dialogue." eye can dig it. ewe don't half two bee smart end ewe don't half two bee funny end intellectuals still like it. eye swear, fmbtyk, it's sew easy it's like shoeing fish in a barrel.
sew hear eye introduce my new form called blóg vérité:
"what is it?"
"eye don't no."
"is it still moving?"
"eye don't think sew."
"is it dead?"
"smells like it."
"can we eat it?"
"eye'd give it another weak."
Well, there's a chill in the air around here, and it's got nothing to do with the season. I'm apparently in the dog house (not a real dog house, but a figurative dog house - I wouldn't be caught dead in a real dog house, those are for cats) for having reported on Stump and Tweet's conversation about reptile dysfunction. Luckily, we have a house rule against waterboarding, but I perceive a cold bath and an anal-gland squeezing in my immediate future. Ouch.
As was explained to me in a series of terse and rather loud commands, not only was that conversation not for public consumption, but apparently I totally misunderstood what was being said. Stump insists that what they were actually talking about was not "reptile dysfunction," but rather "electile dysfunction."
Electile dysfunction, I was informed in carefully measured words, is a reference to "dim-witted humans who vote for neon conservatives who believe in paying the horse with a rock." Hmmm?
"Sounds like a dim-witted horse to me," I said.
"Sit, stay, shut-up," said Tweet.
If only I had listened. Instead, I blurted: "Are you suggesting that you prefer a cowardly butt-and-done immediate withdrawal strategy?"
Luckily I have wifi, because now I'm shut out of the house and writing this in the driveway with the sounds of a slamming door and shouts of "WE WERE NOT TALKING ABOUT SECTS" still ringing in my ears.
I dunno. I think I should have listened to Woody and had them both neutered when we first adopted them. But I always thought it might be fun to have a litter. Now I don't think I could handle more than two of them.
I realize that there just aren't enough hours in the day for Woody and me to sniff the butt of every living thing, or for every living thing to reciprocate. So you shouldn't be surprised when a well-meaning gesture towards one or both of us doesn't elicit the expected response. You just don't know us that well.
For lack of a better word, we're more or less "free-range" dogs. We run when we want but most of the time we sleep in holes we dig in the yard just by farting. We don't wear bandanas, we avoid leashes, no one picks up our poop, we eat dead things we find laying around, and most importantly, we don't play games.
If you're visiting our place and throw a stick, it'll stay where it lands unless you go get it yourself. And if you're thinking of using that frisbee for anything other than an improvised food bowl, fuggidaboudit. And the last person that tried to play tug with Woody ended up on his butt 'cause Woody just let go. It's our way. My dad used to say he was "half aussie and half cantankerous" which makes me at least 1/4 cantankerous. (That's 7/4 cantankerous in dog fractions.) Woody doesn't remember his dad, but nature or nurture, he's with the program.
This is all preamble to noting that a couple dogs named Anna and Mr. Meaty, the "adventure dogs," have taken the liberty of trying to get us involved in a game called "tag." Now these are righteous dogs that go on adventures like cliff-diving in Mexico and butt-freezing in Canada. So we couldn't just offer our standard response which translates roughly to "you can take your friggin' game and stick it up the butt of that person who's holding the other end of your leash." (To which most dogs usually reply, "sweet!")
Anyway, here's the game. We're supposed to list five weird things about ourselves or our pets. Then tag five friends and make them do the same thing. Argh. Do you feel my pain?
So pay attention. Here's how this is going to play out. For starters, we're dogs. We don't have any pets. But in deference to A and Mr. M we will list five weird things about ourselves. But after that, we're through. Mr. Meaty notes that we're the only dogs online that haven't been tagged. So enough is enough. We're not going to tag anybody, thank you very much. The game stops here. We've got a reputation to protect. If we start tagging folks, they'll start expecting us to play well with other dogs and stop barking in the middle of the night. From there it's only a small step to poodle cuts and doggy boots. The horror.
Now I've got to go barf. (No, it doesn't have anything to do with the game. I always barf around this time of day. Really. I do.)
btw, btw, btw. ha! inn case ewe didn't no, btw stands four "buy the weigh." it's a cryptic phrase, two say the leash, butt that's knot the point. the point is that it takes eleven letters and two spaces and reuses it two three characters. that's 13 to 3! on a dog computer that's 91 characters reused to 21 characters. that's sew hot!
ken ewe sea wear aim going with this? sure ewe can. this is gong two save me sew much thyme. because it's knot jest btw. there's also lol, witch means "laughing out loud," and rotfl witch means "rolling on the floor laughing" and rotflmao witch means "rolling on the floor laughing my ask off" end imho witch means "in my human opinion."
inn case ewe haven't figured it out, what these things all half in common is that they take the first letter of each world end use it two foreign a shorter word. it's awl over the internets now. inn fact, these things our called "internet acrobats."
the only problem is that a lot of them hour useless four years truly. four instants, eye don't laugh out loud, or half human opinions or no what "buy the weigh" means.
but nun the less, this is a good think, because eye kin crepé my own internet acrobats. witch eye intend two due. hear's sum of my first wons:
dots - "drooling on the sofa"
wmf - "what? me fart?"
estcw - "ewe smell that crotch, whew"
potnt - "pissing on the neighbor's tree"
hegtetsow - "hour ewe going two eat that stake ore what?"
fmbtyk - "from my butt two yor knows"
tlcptm - "tastes like cat poop two me"
ritss - "rolling inn the smelling stuff"
ritsslmbo - "rolling inn the smelling stuff licking my balls off"
iedliekapiu - "if ewe don't like it, ewe kin always puke it up!"
bbbn - "bark! bark! bark! nevermind."
sew that's enough four now. aisle sleep on this end come up with sum moor soon. inn the meantime, if ewe half any suggest 'ems, well go ahead end suggest 'em.
sew sew sew as ewe kin obviously sea, chigger is perfectly content two go write back too begging four biscuits end acting like alpo grape is just sum thing of the passed. well knot me. eye am still won pretty pissed off puppy because eye no who did that two us. reed on. eye'm going two name names.
remember that picture that chigger showed ewe last week of me, yes me, being threatened buy a pack of rapid dogs and a guy on a leash with a big but? hear, let me refrench yor memory:
now eye looked at that pitcher four the longest thyme. something jest did knot seem write. than eye noticed the shadowy little figure on the write.
could it bee? eye had to find out. sew eye took the pitcher two won of those forensic labs ewe sea on tv wear they enhance photos end had them blow up that particulate part of the photo sew ewe kin sea stuff better.
eye still could knot tell four sure, butt eye did notice a shiny patch on the back of the dog's neck. sew eye pointed at it end told the lab too blow it up end enhance it. end then eye knew:
end what about barney? yes, barney, the "other" white house dog. the one the president described as "the son i never had." inn spite of spot's 14 years of devotion (that's 85 in dog years) she was always overshadowed buy the spoiled, egotistical end undisciplined barney. did barney institute a bit of the old family tradition of regime change? eye woodn't put it passed him buy a long snot.
stump thinks sum dog named "rover" mite have put barney up two it (although he pronounced it without the last "r" witch eye attribute two his speech in pedal mint). know matter. vengence willoughby mine. may bee knot two day. may bee knot tomorrow. butt won day when he least inspects it, isle male a note that says barney is over do four awl his shots end needs his temperature taken too. mark my words, that dog will get his in the end.
I am a dog. I have been a dog for virtually my entire life of 70.8 years. I have always felt that being a dog carries with it certain responsibilities such as loyalty, friendliness, joyfulness, protection, respect, guidance, perseverance and the ability to train a human to shake your paw before you let them give you a treat.
But now, after suffering through two years of complete and total degradation, I must add another responsibility to that list. And that is to bear witness. I must tell you, as dispassionately as I can, about the despicable humiliations we were subjected to in the notorious Alpo Grape prison. (My story will be accompanied by photographs that were surreptitiously downloaded from the cell phone camera of some pathetic conceptual artist who saw our condition as nothing more than fodder for his next pathetic exhibition in some pathetic 7th-floor-walk-up gallery-and-discount-frame-shop in Chelsea. Sheesh. I can remember when an MFA meant something.)
The details of how and why we were abducted will have to wait until we've ironed out the small print in the movie rights deal, but I can certainly tell you about the numerous instances of sadistic, blatant, and wanton criminal abuse that were perpetrated upon us.
It started as soon as we arrived. Gangs of young women came into the room and held us down while an older human stuck long needles in us. Oh wait, that wasn't Alpo Grape, that was the vet. Let me start over.
Gangs of young women can in and forced us into a tub-like thing and began spraying us with a high-pressure water hose. I panicked but they overwhelmed me and continued to spray me in all parts of my body. Then they rubbed some chemical foaming agent all over my body. Then more water. When I couldn't answer their questions, they tortured me with some kind of hot-air gun weapon. They grab my paws and took each individual toe and slowly cut off the end of each nail with a medieval cutting device, all the while sneering derisively, "Is that okay? Then we're going to do another one." And when I still didn't talk they tore at my fur with a multi-toothed torture device that pulled huge quantities of hair from my skin.
Over and over again they hollered questions at me: "Do you want to go for a walk? Do you want to walk?" I didn't know what they meant, and when I didn't answer they tied a long strap to my neck and forced me to follow them outdoors and trudge around the building complex. My arthritis was killing me.
Later they forced us to wear clothes and hats and laughed derisively as they took pictures. Often we were forced to assume humiliating poses, sort of like those poor weimaraners that that Wegman fellow abuses. They made us go for rides in cars but wouldn't let us put our heads out the window.
As the torture escalated, they forcibly prevented us from eating cat turds, and refused to let us smell human crotches or even other dogs' butts. The tortured us psychologically by picking up sticks and feigning to throw them long distances while hollering "fetch," when in reality they were merely transferring the stick to their other hand and hiding it behind their back. All the while we were becoming increasingly disoriented by our failures to complete the task.
I could go on, but what's the point? You can imagine what they fed us: garbage like cooked vegetables and rice while gourmet-quality rotting raw meat was thrown into trash cans, out of sight, but not out of smell, just to torture us. And when they brought out the giant military ducks (without muzzles) to frighten and intimidate us, I thought Woody was a goner.
Anyway, I'm sure you'll read elsewhere about our heroic escape, the way we played dead and then jumped out of the pick-up that was taking us to the horse-food factory. How we crossed the river by jumping from ice floe to ice floe and slew the great white whale, how we followed a yellow brick road to a Moroccan piano bar named "Rick's" where we met Inigo Montoya and saved him from the six-fingered man, and how he later helped us outwit the Queen of Hearts in a game of croquette. But I've said too much already. It's only going to hurt royalties.
Just let me say that it's nice to be back.
wolf wolf wolf! it is with a micks of grate pleasure end extreme releap that eye report two ewe awl that we… the won end only blogdogs… our back!!!! eye no eye no, most of ewe want two no “wear ewe bin”? and eye no sum of ewe wrote inn end axed “hay dog-breads, wears my money”? as four sadie and daisy, jest quit barking long enough four me to explain. ginger meant nothing two me. it is ewe eye care about. we can settle this without lawyers.
sew lettuce cut two the chase. did we get board, run out of ideas, end quit? eye should say knot. did we, as so many speculated, run off two dog island? eye wish! did we just get tired of righting? us? shirley ewe jest.
the reel and shocking truth is that we, yor loyal end devoted bloggers, have, as outrageous as it sounds, bean held against hour wills as illegal retainees at the notorious ALPO GRAPE prison for moor than 15 dog years. end we half got the pitchers two prove it!
soon, eye will tell ewe moor. butt four now, my brain must drain, my paws must pause. bare with me while I sort out this sadie/daisy/ginger confusion end isle get write back two righting sum moor.
awl write awl write awl write. its awl my fault. ewe happy now, chigger? sew cut me sum slacks. the bottom lime is that dog island sucks. big thyme. ewe jest think it was "really really really good" because yor a cute bitch end every friggin' alpha-male-wannabee on the island was literally kissing year but.
meanwhile, eye'm getting my but kicked about every too seconds, and that's dog seconds. their quicker then people seconds. eye want a drink of water end eye've got to fight three dogs. eye want two eat end a hole gang of mongrels come up end tell me two get two the back of the line. end eye don't even want two talk about what happened when eye went up end said hello two that cute little poodle.
sew eye pea'd in bluto's dog food bowl. sue me. he deserved it. then they voted us off the island. ore sew they said. butt what with dog island being off the coast of florida, eye'd take those election results with a grain of salt.
sew phooey on dog island, end ewe kin take down those yellow ribbons, cause weird back!
end four those of ewe who think this blog has been boring four the passed few months, check this one out.
Okay, I have to admit I didn't expect to ever be posting here again. Not in a million dog years.
If you didn't figure it out, a couple of months ago Woody and I packed up our bag of bones and moved to Dog Island. And let me tell you, we�re not like those fools on Star Trek who, every time they come across some utopian society, become immediately suspicious and initiate some kind of regime change. I guess that�s a human thing: if life is really really really good, then you�re morally obligated to muck it up.
But not this dog. Dog Island was, indeed, really really really good. After the first week I threw away my tags and vowed I�d never ever sit-on-command again. It was like I was a queen. I can honestly say that I didn't miss a single thing about my old life, with the exception of warm cat turds. But when they're not trying to pass off meat byproducts and rotten vegetables as dog food, I can live with that.
But nirvana was not to be my fate. Why, you ask? Why? WHY? Let me tell you why. @%# WOODY GOT US VOTED OFF THE ISLAND.
Now excuse me while I go bang my head against a rock.
ewe ewe ewe like us! ewe really really like us! weave just bean honored buy sara lain of techtv.com as her "animal fever blog no. 1". weir sew surprised wee dew knot even half any prepared comments. however, qui our knot at a lost four words.
butt now that eye have yor attention, eye'd like two take a moment (in dog years) two thank my mother end my father (whoever he was � and if yor out their reading this dad, don't ewe dare show up expecting me to share sum of my purinas now), all my brothers and sisters end neutered siblings (wear ever ewe our); stump and tweet, the humids who keep the floor clean and the bowl full; gilda end guillermo, the to cats who our always dumb enough two walk away from there bowls before their dun eating; buster, the quiet assassin; tucker, the over-caffeinated professor; end of coarse eye have two thank spot and barney, the white house dogs, because, as every dog nose, ewe half two kiss butt two get ahead.
eye'd also like two thank meankitty.com, wear eye go four inspiration and spiritual renewal; the global squirrel network where eye track international conspiracy and terrorism, and sonya the pet side kick four fooling most of the people most of the thyme; and shatya, whose breath is sew bad it cuts me sum slack.
and while eye no that the academy doesn't want me two get off on a political rant hear, eye have two chastise all those low-rent opportunistic humans out their who cynically use dogs as capitalist tools. dog yoga? say what? dog yoga? give me a frigging break. no, knot a break. give me a rack of barbecue baby-back ribs. just don't even think that eye want ore knead dog yoga.
weir dogs, dammit. we don't dew yoga, we don't ware clothes, we don't care if hour food is organic ore three-week-old genetically modified road kill. and specially formulated bottled water? our ewe kidding me? ever herd of a puddle?
we don't knead jewel-studded collars, we hate all toothpastes know matter what the flavor, a stick is as good as molded plastic throe toy, and awl wee care about when it comes to bowls is what's inside them.
sew police go ahead and fetishize us if ewe must, but don't four a second pretend that it has anything two dew with hour lifes. yor praying on each others foolishness, and wee want nothing two due with it.
now, wear was eye? oh yes. eye'd also like two thank awl those wonderful humans who work in those buildings wear ewe drive up to a window and they hand you a bag full of greasy food. their just two cool four words. and eye want to thank awl hour loyal readers, and bentley end geoffrey the twisted brits, and fillmore and betty, end merl... oops. hear comes the big brown delivery truck. gotta run. and bark.
snarg, snarg, snaaaaarg... dam bug up my nose... oops, pardon me... anyway... eye eye eye realize that their our a lot of blogs out their, butt eye half two confess that eye dew knot reed very many of them. my mane complaint is that most blogs our buy people, and knot very mini our buy dogs. face it. people our boaring with lousy priorities. they'd rather talk about politics then deer ticks, about girls then squirrels, about corporate malfeasance rather then possum guts. and if eye, four a moment, thought sum won else's sex life was the least bit interesting, eye'd bee putting up daily posts about gilda's pathetic fantasies.
butt... and this is a big butt, people blogs often half sum thing that eye dough knot half. and that's a "wish list." that's wear a blogger has a list on amazon.com of stuff ewe can by them inn order to simulate the task/reward ritual. ore sum thymes it's about lechery. sort of a virtual come-on four blog readers in heat. (end they complain about leg-humping. two each his own, eye say.)
sew, and at any rate, in order two stay current, get sum free stuff, end facilitate yor fantasies, eye halve established my own wish list. jest by me anything ewe see on this list end eye will imagine myself dewing whatever it is ewe want me two imagine myself dewing two ewe. how cool is that? huh?
spam spam spam spam spam spam. eye love spam. at least when eye can get it out of the can. it's just unsolicited email eye can't stand. eye mean who does their marketing research? eye'm a dog ewe fool. eye don't kneed a bigger wangus, and eye certainly don't want bigger booberinos and eye'm knot stupid enough two think that some dog stranger in nigeria really wants too send me a hundred million dog biscuits four safekeeping. and looking at animals getting, well, intimate, with naked humans is, well, there's just know accounting four what sum dogs will dew four a cookie. eye guess ewe really half two wonder if humans are really dumb enough two by something from someone who gives them a fake return address. must bee. unless their are humans dumb enough two keep sending stuff out with fake addresses even though know won bys anything. butt awl this is beside the point, which is, inn spite of everything else, the fact that eye'm a total sucker four kinky squirrel porno spam. arf arf arf. ewe no why? because it's really hard for a squirrel two run fast in high heels. har har har.
I know. Long time. No post. So what. For my part, I was thinking that it was Woody's turn to post, but he's been preoccupied lately. For starters he got this massive writer's block trying to tell the story of how we saved the wild chicken that was running around lost in the woods. But it was a story of dubious merit with no happy ending. And I personally wasn't pleased with the way I was portrayed.
Then to make matters worse, Woody's best friend Fillmore was found dead under mysterious circumstances. The two were odd-couple close and the loss put Woody off his food for a good 15-20 minutes. (That's in dog years, so it's a lot longer than you think it is. At least for Woody.)
Then there was the whole unprecedented-natural-disaster-ice-storm-thing where Stump and Tweet left us alone to cope for seven freaking days (albeit again in dog years) with no water and no heat and no dog treats and trees are crashing all over the place and our walking paths are trashed and the ice builds up between your toes when you go walking around and forms teeny snowballs because it freezes to the hairs on your feet and makes walking out to take a pee painful which of course is a real thrill for us bitches who are stuck just sticking our butts on the ice and whizzing. Just the fact alone that I didn't crap in the house is gonna cost Stump and Tweet big time, and when you throw in all the rest of that nightmare, they're gonna be MY bitches for more than a little while. And I mean that in human years.
Then to top it off, we had to make our annual Blog Dogs holiday quicktime movie for friends and family. (It's such a pain dealing with those Hollywood types). So you can see we've been busy. Of course if you really needed a blog fix you could have visited Barney, the "other" White House Dog, who was supposedly giving tours of the White House using a Barney Cam strapped to his back. Cute, but it's no West Wing. And like everything else coming out of Washington, DC these days, you have to ask yourself what's REALLY going on. In this case, just how does Barney end up pictured in videos being shot with a camera that is supposedly attached to his back? Something's not right here and I think a Congressional investigation is in order. And if "serious" journalists won't keep this abuse of the American trust in the public eye until it's resolved, then it's up to us bloggers. Has Barney been cloned? And has this got anything to do with increased homeland security? And what's a scotch terriorist doing in the White House anyway? And does that mean Scotland is now part of the axis of evil? And is "axis of evil" really "live fo sixa" spelled backwards? And if so, what does that mean? (Drudge has got nothin' on this blogger.)
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.
know know know know know. theirs a rumor going around that eye am somehow a suspect inn the following crime: animal control seeks dog that bit man. the charges are bogus and eye have a rock solid alibi. eye was doing something else. just ask me. and i'm not brown, i'm reddish brown. this is an outrageous case of fur color profiling. anything ewe overheard in a diner was a hoax. eye was just goofing on a waitress who was giving me the suspicious eye. and after awl, it is florida. so consider the source.
pitchers, pitchers, pitchers. eye got pitchers. isle leaf the autobiographicalisms to chigger, because she can right. me, eye due the visual image thing. hear's a sample showing me and chigger suckering some poor human out of a half-dozen dog biscuits. peace of cake. (click on the pitcher for a bunch more.)
People have been contacting us wanting to know more who we are, so I figured I'd better do another autobiographical entry. (See About Us Part I. )
Actually, dogs have been contacting us, too, but they just want to know what our butts smell like. (It would sure save me a lot of time if humans were so practical.) So, here's a scratch-and-sniff for the dogs, and the rest of you will have to keep on reading...
Anyway, as far as breeds go, Woody's a pure-bred Ayarbie (i.e., an Indeterminate Reddish-Brown dog). He had papers when he was really young, but eventually he was expected to poop outside.
As for me, I was baptized an Australian Shepherd, but I left the church after I found out that (a) they cut the tails off Australian Shepherds, and (b) the AKC (aka $#@*!#?%) thinks that white Australian Shepherds are inferior to black and/or brown Australian Shepherds. Pretty arbitrary if you ask me. Hey, at least I'm smart enough to still have a tail, and that's a lot more than you can say for all those Kennel Club Aussies.
I should make it clear that we're grownup dogs. We play hard, we work some, and we sleep a lot. We eat whenever and whatever. We don't do tricks, we don't dress up in silly clothes, and we are definitely not wegmans. (I'm not sure where that term came from, but it's dog slang for dogs that dress up in human clothes and pose for stupid pictures.)
As for where we're located, first you have to sniff out the herd of shetland cattle, then go about a good run time until you come to the black cows. Bark until the cows break for the barn, then go left. (If you smell the markings of a big dog named Bear, you've gone too far, but if you start noticing more deer and turkey droppings, you're headed the right direction.) You cross the creek where the groundhogs live. (Woody has managed to annoy them on more than one occasion, so don't expect them to be friendly.) Keep going and ignore the bag of garbage in the ditch. (It's useless. Whoever threw it out was a vegetarian.) Once you pass the dead possum, be alert for Woody's territory markings. Pretty soon you'll notice a smell that says, "Hi, I'm Woody and I live here. This is my place. It belongs to me. You can visit, but keep your tail between your legs at all times." Then you'll know you're almost there.
Just head left and we'll start barking to welcome you!
Woody's so proud of himself for putting up a semi-coherent post that he's off to tell every squirrel within a half-mile of home. Like they care. Squirrels hate the Internet. Just like they hate pretty much everything except bird feeders.
I guess that leaves it to me to try to say a bit about who we are. Woody and I aren't blood related, but we are pack siblings. I'm the alpha female, and Woody's the alpha male. Which, as anyone knows, means I get my way and Woody gets to do all the chasing and fighting and then has to stand in line for props and dog treats.
Agewise, I'm about seven and Woody's about six. If those numbers are confusing, you can refer to our Age Calculator to translate. What we have in common is that for both of us the last time we saw our birth families was while we were standing in a ditch and they were driving away. It just goes to show you that humans aren't nearly as smart as they think they are sometimes. After all, they should be smart enough to know that if they open the door of the car, put a puppy out on the road, close the door, and then drive away, we can't keep up. Especially when we're puppy-size. I can't imagine how bad they must feel when they realize that won't ever get to see us again just because of some ill-conceived game. But then they are the same species that expects us to kiss them on the lips right after we've been licking our genitals. Whatever.
Luckily, we've been able to locate and train a new family to feed and care for us here in the woods in North Carolina. Unfortunately, they also have cats, but I'm sure we'll have a chance to discuss that in depth at a later time.