Posts Tagged ‘dogs’

I don’t normal take those on-line quizzes . . . You know the ones I’m talking about.

What Disney character are you most like?

What Rock and Roll Band are you most like?

Which Harry Potter character are you?

Which superhero are you?

What Olympian God/Goddess are you most like?

What animal are you?

What color are you?

Seriously?  What color am I?  Do I not have a mirror?

But if you have ever ventured into the vast wasteland of Facebook, these quizzes are rampant.  But for some reason, one of them caught my eye recently.  Maybe it was because of this eye image that accompanied the advertisement:


What is your subconscious obsessed with?

I thought I already knew the answer to this one.  SEX.  I’m not ashamed to admit it.  I think about it nearly all the time.  I don’t know why.  I’ve always assumed that this was normal.  And the people who are not obsessed with it–they are what we call liars.  So I was ready to test this scientific assessment to see if it came up with the correct answer.

So I clicked on a series of pictures they displayed before me–and I tried to be as honest as possible since none of them really reminded me of sex anyway–even those inkblots don’t look like anything to me except evidence that your pen is leaking and you need a new pen–and the end result was that my subconscious is apparently obsessed with . . .





The only time I really commune with nature is when I run–and I do love to run outside, braving the worst of elements to avoid the dreadmill or elliptical.  We do have two dogs, but getting the dogs was not my idea.  In fact, I went on record saying I didn’t want even one dog, let alone two.  I put my foot down–right into a pile of puppy poop.  It’s not that I don’t like my dogs–I do.  But I am not obsessed with them.  I hate cats.  I loathe cats.  Truth be told, I am deathly allergic to cats and have almost ended up in the hospital unable to breathe thanks to these itchy, scratchy, wheezy little varmints.  The only good cat is a dead one, and sometimes I have to back over them nine times to make sure I get all their lives.

I do like cows.  Hamburgers and steaks are my favorite.  And pigs.  I love me some bacon.  So maybe I am an animal person after all.

Camping?  Please.  If there isn’t indoor plumbing, heat and a/c, and a bed to sleep on, I’ll pass.  If there’s cable TV, I’m there.  No Wifi?  No thank you.

Hiking?  Is that running up hill at a slow pace?  OK, maybe.

Makes me think about nature while doing grocery shopping, cooking . . . okay let’s just stop right there.  I don’t grocery shop and I do not cook.  I have trouble making grilled cheese sandwiches.

Where did I go wrong?  How could I be obsessing about nature, when I’m so busy obsessing about sex?

Then it hit me.  My obsession with sex was conscious.  Subconsciously, I might be obsessing about nature.  Maybe having sex outdoors, getting au naturel, or something like that.

What color am I?  Maybe I should take that test too. . . .could be any one of fifty shades of grey.

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Separated at Birth?

A Pekingese dog, Malachy, won the 2012 Westminster Dog Competition.

Have you seen this dog?

A face only a dog owner could love.

Who does he remind YOU of?

Freaky little monkey.

Can you feel the love tonight?

The King has returned!

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Man’s Best Friend Request

Sometimes you wonder if technology has gone too far.

Take the phone for instance.  Does anyone have just a cell phone anymore?  They can take pictures, record video, text messages, access the Internet and use them to read this blog or play games.  Some people get around this uncomfortable situation by calling them cellular devices instead of cell phones.  They are freaking computers that you can put up to your ear!

And with the proliferation of cellular devices, there are fewer pay phones–and even fewer phone booths.  What are Clark Kent and Dr. Who supposed to do?

But we can be sure that wherever Superman manages to change from Clark Kent into the Man of Steel, he will be able to check his email on his I-phone.

But, I digress.

Sometimes you wonder if technology has gone too far.

Sometimes you know it has.

The issue of concern for me here is that I received a Facebook Friend Request from Kurt.

Wait for it . . .

Kurt is . . . my dog.

Yes.  My dog has asked me to be his friend on Facebook.

I was very concerned about this and discussed it with my wife.  She assures me that the dogs are never allowed on the computer unsupervised.

Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel any better.

Then, I got a request from Kurt to accept the status of being his father.

Now, truth be told, we don’t know ‘who’s his daddy.’  He was abandoned and we adopted him.  I guess that makes me his adoptive parent.  I accepted.  (I didn’t want to hurt his feelings.)  I also have to be careful what I type here.  H-e.  M-a-y.  B-e.  R-e-a-d-i-n-g.  T-h-i-s.

Don’t laugh at me–and don’t deny that you’ve never spelled in front of your kid dog.  If I actually say the word T-R-E-A-T he may run me over going to the jar where we keep them!

According to Kurt’s Facebook Page, his relationship status is “complicated.”

Seriously?  He’s a dog!

His interests include eating, sleeping, playing and running.  Those are mine too, but at least I can understand that in a dog.

Kurt, the Ladies Man

Among his favorite movies are Snow Dogs and Old Yeller.

Under television, he likes Clifford the Big Red Dog, Blues Clues, and . . . Vampire Diaries?  I am getting a bit freaked out here.

Under music, Kurt likes Taylor Swift. I am really freaked out now!

Under Books–I didn’t know he could read, but then again, how could he create a Facebook page if he couldn’t!–he lists Go Dog Go, The Pokey Little Puppy and . . .the Twilight Series?  I feel like I’m in the Twilight Zone!

It’s like I don’t even know this dog.

Aaack!  Now my other dog, Sammy, has sent me a friend request!

And his music likes include Michael Bublé!  I am beyond freaking now!

I think they may have more friends than I!

All I can say is this:  if they start blogging, I’m outta here!

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Bigger Isn’t Better

American advertising will tell you bigger is better.

A bigger car.  A bigger house,  A bigger paycheck.  A bigger phallus.  Did I just type that out loud?  Wait!  Size doesn’t matter does it, unless you are buying burgers and fries?

But bigger isn’t always better.

A bigger car loan.  A bigger mortgage.  Bigger responsibilities at work.  A bigger need for performance enhancing drugs or surgery due to inadequate anatomy.

Where am I going with this?  Viagra Falls?

No, this near and dear issue arose this morning as I took the dogs out for their morning constitutionals.

Since we adopted Kurt in February, he has grown considerably.

Six months old and still growing!

 With this change in stature, there has been a change in the volume of excrement, if you catch my drift.

"You're going to need a BIGGER BAG!"

With our first dog, Carly–a beagle mix, one baggie could pick up 2 or 3 messes.  With Sammy our miniature dachsund, one baggie could last all week.  But here I am with Kurt and my little Glad sandwich baggie.  It’s like being in a stall with only one square left, and you really need like half a roll.  And no one around to spare a square!  In the end, I have poop on my hands and a new desire to shop for bigger bags.

Don't be HAD . . . Get GLAD!

Maybe BIGGER is BETTER after all, at least when it comes to poop patrol!

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Who Let the Dogs In?

Who?  Who?

It all started back in 2002 when my daughter decided she wanted a puppy.  We don’t need a dog. I did not want a dog.   It’s not that I am not an animal lover.  I love cows.  In the form of hamburgers and steaks.  I like chickens a lot–they taste like chicken.  I adore lobsters.  In melted butter.  What’s not to love about animals?  Okay, I’m not big on ham–I will not eat it Sam I am–but I do love bacon.  Mmmmm bacon.  I’m making me hungry here.

A few years before she asked for a puppy, I was trying to get on the show, Who Wants to be a Millionaire?–the Regis Philbin version where the general public could answer questions on the phone or take tests to get auditions.  One of the questions the producers supposedly asked was, ‘would you kill a mouse (or hamster or some other small varmint) for a million dollars?”  I’d kill a mouse for a Klondike Bar.  For a million dollars, I’d eat the varmint.  I already pay fast food places to eat whatever they call beef, so getting paid (a lot) to eat a mouse sounds like a great deal.  But I digress.

I really don’t hate animals.  I just don’t want them chewing my shoes, digging holes in my yard, shedding hair in my house, and pooping all over the place.  A puppy is a lot of work (and I am by nature lazy), and I do not want a puppy.

So when my daughter looked at me with those big brown (puppy dog) eyes, I said no to the puppy.  I put my foot down firmly.  And do you know what I got?  Puppy poop on my shoe.

Well this past winter we had to put Carly down as she had an inoperable stomach tumor.  She was arthritic and blind despite only being about 9 years old.  It was a sad day–even I was moved to tears.

But out of my misery, was one bright shining thought:  our house was now dog free again.  No fur on the floor.  No poop in the yard that I had to dodge while mowing.  We had already replaced the white carpets with hardwood and a new set of livingroom furniture since Carly all but shredded the original furniture as a puppy.  Read my lips:  no more dog.

That lasted about a two months.

And now we have TWO puppies.  Not just one but two.  That’s twice the poop if you do the math.

When did I lose control of my house?  I strongly suspect it was when I said ‘I do’ but I really wonder if I ever had any control.  Perhaps it was all just a figment of my imagination.


Kurt is a german shepherd mix.  His litter was abandoned.  There were 7 puppies, two males and five females, so they were each named for one of the Von Trapp children.  We ended up with Kurt, and Fraulein Helga was correct:  he is incorrigible. 


Brittany chose Carly.  Brandon, my eldest son and second child, got to pick Kurt–he is partial to German Shepherds.  Poor Cameron, my youngest, who favors dachsunds, would have to wait his turn.  That wait turned out to be about six weeks.  Now we have a miniature dachsund named Sammy.  He is basically another chew toy for Kurt who has already quadrupled in size since we got him.

Aren't they soooo cute together?

They play well together–for about five minutes.  They are as bad–if not worse–than my kids.  And the little one attacks the big one like he is some kind of super dog.  He is only a mouthful away from extinction but thinks he can win this battle.  He does have the advantage of being low to the ground and at just the right height to bite Kurt’s . . .well, it’s not his tail and let’s leave it at that.

Mom! Kurt's touching me!

Unfortunately, Kurt being the older sibling, has to have a time out.  But that doesn’t keep the other one from taunting him!

Ha Ha! You can't get me!

Having a dachsund reminds me of the old Sprint commercial. . . STAMPEDE! :

These dogs may be the death of me.  I just hope I don’t have to buy new furniture again.

I originally published the amusing story about getting Carly–Puppy Love–on an old geocities site that no longer exists.  If anyone is interested, leave me a comment and I can repost it here.

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