An item came my way this morning (newspaper under the desk, luckily Star is clumsy) about how big black dogs often get sent to the pound—or worse. We know what I mean by worse—worse does not mean no TV for a week. “Big black dogs just don’t get adopted,” an ASPCA guy said in this story. In Rogers, Arkansas (Rogers, Arkansas? Where do these writers get these sources anyhow?), 13 of the 14 dogs who were…oh, I can’t even say it…were big and black. One person said these dogs don’t photograph well. Oh, good grief, I don’t even have eyeballs and I got adopted. Also, if they get white around their mouths, people think they are old. So? And someone also said it is hard to read their expressions. What are we talkin’ here, Marcel Marceau? Give these dudes a break, why don’t ya? They have pink tongues to kiss you with—all you need to know.
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Check them out—these guys can be viewed at 3busydogs.com/ourstory.htm. Maggie, they say, is not very busy, so they named their company 3 Busy Dogs. (Maggie is apparently pretty flat, like moi, although she does have a third dimension and is not a Clipart.) Chewy is the Golden Retriever, Dax is the Rottweiler and Casey is the West Highland Terrier. Here, these official quality control “testers” are in the Test Kitchen and taking their work seriously.
Their owner has baked some stuff called Spoiled Rotten Dog Treats. I have not tried them (hint, hint), but apparently these are crispy, pretzely things with a little sweetness and no dog-killing ingredients. And—this is pretty out there—they also sell Bowser Beer, a low-cal dog beverage that does not cause you to don a lampshade and sing “Lady of Spain.” Er, I think that is what I sang, though maybe it’s what the guy with the accordian was playing. It’s hazy.
These two, Star and Nancy, always think they know what I am thinking. Sometimes, I am not thinking anything, people! I am gestating. This is what THEY call it when they are staring into space and not typing. They say it’s because writing and typing are not the same; writing takes lots of “gestating,” whatever that is. I think it means thinking and planning. They say typing is almost the last and easiest step of writing. This gestating thing means waking in the middle of the night with an idea (and when Star wakes up, it wakes me, too), the ever-popular mulling, something called research (not sure on that one) and calling people. Then, something jells, and I am fairly sure they don’t mean the wiggly red stuff. So, when I am lying on my pillow with my eyes closed, don’t bother me. Gestation happening. Sounds good anyway, doesn’t it?
If you think collecting for Star and Nancy and keeping them amused is not work, you just don’t know work when you hear it complained about. But I gotta say, traveling to Iraq as a therapy dog would be challenging. Sometimes the paper falls to the floor and I catch a couple of paragraphs.
Seems Budge and Boe are the first therapy dogs to be sent to Iraq to cheer up the soldiers. They are labs. I also read a story in the Wall Street Journal a few weeks ago about how some Iraq commanders won’t let soldiers feed or befriend dogs on the bases and sometimes these dogs get shot. Shot! For heaven’s sake, that’s awful. The handler of the therapy dogs said these guys are “stress sponges.”
Yeah. What do you think I am for Nancy and Star? A stress loofah!
Paul Newman, big sighs, blue eyes—I have heard of him. The other day, I read on a package of his dog treats that he lets his dog write copy.
If that’s his picture on there, he is some hairy Scottie type. According to this, he is coming out with a “tell all” on Paul, and these treats were created to bribe him into shutting up.
One thing he wants to reveal is that Newman has a deeply rooted fear of drinking toilet water. Paul, Paul, let it all out. Newman’s daughter also makes a mess of the kitchen, according to this report.
If you can’t believe a dog food package, what can you believe?
Nancy and Star agree on almost everything. Has anyone even seen them in the same room together. See? I thought not.
But Star likes Archy, the Typing Cockroach, and Nancy thinks roaches, even the poets, could use a good mashing. I am on the fence, personally. I am a little jealous of the Arch-Man—he invented animal blogging, basically. There is never anything new under this old sun, is there?
Archy’s peep was a newspaper reporter named Don Marquis. A competitor of his had a rat who could type, but never completed a story (so typical). This—Marquis wrote—gave him the courage to reveal the presence of Archy, a chipper little scarab (as a talking mummy—this is good stuff, I tell you—once referred to the little six-legger).
“We came into our room earlier than usual in the morning and discovered a giant cockroach jumping about on the keys,” Marquis explained in the first of many columns starring Archy.
“expression is the need of my soul, archy had typed.
i was once a vers libre bard
but i died and my soul went into the body of a cockroach
it has given me a new outlook upon life
i see things from the under side now
thank you for the apple peelings in the wastepaper basket
but your paste is getting so stale i cant eat it.”
For you consarned cat lovers, Archie also had a feline friend, a blowsy type named Mehitabel. He was also against Prohibition, long story.
You can read more of his ravings at www.donmarquis.com.
He can’t work the caps key, though, the little vermin, and I can. So there.
Those two—they never stop thinking. The other day they thought they should ask the Kraft Company to advertise on their sites. Star (who can’t cook, I’m here to tell ‘ya) eats a lot of the yellow–orange ambrosia. Comfort food for starving writers. Sure, don’t even mention Alpo, Pedigree and Beneful. It’s okay. I am quite fond of the sawed-off noodles with the neon sauce myself.