I hear that pets can get health insurance now. I told my peeps, but they said they can barely afford it for themselves, the vets are nicer than their doctors anyhow, not to bother them with this, didn’t self-employed people have enough to worry about, and so on. The usual.
Then I heard an ad for Progressive, saying how they now cover dogs. I think this means dogs hurt in a car wreck. Didn’t they always? Or were dogs considered the same as a broken rocker panel or something? You know, some stuff, not a living thing, especially such an excellent living thing. I love to stick my head out and suck wind, but don’t dare bring up this insurance thing again.
Life in the fast lane, I guess.
As a purebred Clipart, I lie pretty flat in the kneehole of a desk. Though I don’t miss my third dimension, I do enjoy a nice towel under me. As I snooze under here, I hear a lot.
These two women are chatterboxes, though they live on opposite coasts, one in Arizona, the other in West Virginia.
Yak yak, yip yip, all the livelong.
How to do this, how to do that, how weird the Internet is, what a client said, how to mind-read clients, did he call, did she email, the whole niner.
What can I say—they are communicators. They can’t help it.
They even got me doing it after hours.
Oh, well, it’s nice background noise—kind of like keeping the radio on when you’re home alone.
Of course, I have no way to change the station.
I saw the coolest show on Nat Geo last night, “Dogtown,” about the big Best Friends sanctuary in Kenab, Utah. Basically, it’s a desert full of dogs and every other animal you can think of. Star and Nancy would contribute part of their profits on Writers Catablog to Best Friends, if you people buy anything. Would ya?
Anyhow, this show is on every Friday night for awhile, I think. In this epi, Ruger and Remington, two big ole hounds rescued from a polygamist household that was busted in Colorado City, AZ, were such buddies they had to be split up to make them adoptable. (No, I wasn’t misting up, my eyes itched is all.) Gradually, they got to know other dogs and finally Remington found a home with some other tail-waggers. Ruger is still waiting, but he is a good boy. There were other stories, too—like the one about Animal, a mean little terrier who had been standing in his own “leavings” for years in a puppy mill. He was testy and mean as a Tasmanian Devil, but this woman with uneven bangs on her head quieted him down and he began to play with other dogs. Anyhow, this is a good show. I am lucky I have peeps. Don’t think I don’t know it.
Speaking of conspiracies, there is a rumor going around about my looks. People are saying I had “work” done. You must mean the eyeball thing. Sometimes I have them, sometimes I don’t. I can see just as well either way—personally I like the Sandy look, like Orphan Annie’s ocularly deprived pooch. But my mistresses also like the fakies my artist Mary put in when she redrew me.
They do make me look younger than five, don’t they?
Sometimes my body looks pretty buff, too. I call that a Good Abs Day.
Bet you wish you were having one.
No, not on this thing…on the women’s other site, Writer’s Catablog (http://www.writerscatablog.com), to buy a coffee mug based on (blush) my fine form. Nancy and Star think all writers should have a mug on their desk reminding them that the freelance life is an exhilarating, though sometimes scary, Quest for Kibble. Brown balls, lobster, Kraft Dinner, whatever you people eat. They were saying just this morning how fortunate it is that the mug is alcohol-safe. I didn’t get that part, but they were laughing, which I do get. So…why not indulge? Tell ’em I sent ya.
Oh, for Pete’s sake, I don’t know what is with you cat lovers out there. All I am hearing is cats, cats, where are the puddy tats on this blog? OK—happy? This secretive, silent, elephant-toed specimen is named Chonie, which as some of you multilinguals may know, means underpants in Spanish. I hate to get into this, but she has white markings on her stomach that resemble undies. I never thought I would have to type that word. But there it is. As you can see, Chonie is Star’s self-appointed secretary, demoting me to bill collecting muscle. Why did she have to pick this way to suddenly suck up? No idea. Wait’ll Star finds out she is plugging up the airholes on the monitor. That’ll be choice. Hee-hee.
After I ate a few brown balls from my bowl (darn, I like pizza rinds), I got thinking about how the “big” website has the word “cat” and even more mysteriously, the word “scat,” in it (my dog friend Andy’s person pointed that out). I would like this to be known as the DeScribbles Code. Look for more hidden kitty references as time goes on (http://writerscatablog.com). I hated that book but am not above stealing the title. Titles can’t be copyrighted, you know. I learned that from Nancy and Star.