Thursday, August 27, 2009

What the Dogs Do While You're at Work

Back in the day, when everybody drank hard liquor, smoked unfiltered, ironed their clothes, and drove classic cars, your dogs might have whiled away the workday hours this way:

But this is Austin and a new era, so while you're working too many hours for too little pay, your dogs are probably improving themselves by doing yoga, learning Spanish online, watching organic gardening shows on the Create channel, or participating in a book club in which they read and discuss the merits of dog-centric books, such as Racing in the Rain ("Meh.") and Marlee and Me ("Enough with the dying dogs! Pass me a kleenex!").

It could happen. Want proof? 

Yes, the masterpiece of doggie kitsch has been lovingly reinterpreted by an artist named Mark Sowa. You can read the story behind the artwork and its source at the always interesting Dog Art Today. 

Now you know why you keep finding spent herbal tea bags and Kashi bar wrappers in the trash when you come home. Also, those mysterious charges on your credit card to Half Price Books.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Dream Dogs

So, the last dream I had before waking on Saturday involved the dogs. It was set in the apartment Roma and I shared in Worcester, MA, in a big, high-ceilinged rowhouse with worn hardwood floors. In the dream, I was fretting because I had just put my purple yoga mat through the blender. Also, I was trying to pack for our move back to Texas, and I could only find shoes for my right foot. Annoying!

Both dogs sat on the floor at the end of the bed, watching me patiently. In the dream, Roma could talk. She looked at Muzzy and said in a sardonic voice, "I guess she's forgotten how to walk us." I got the hint; I woke up immediately and took the girls for their morning constitutional. Talk about the power of subliminal suggestion.

PS: Muzzy is less indirect in her wake-up calls. I forgot to set my alarm on Monday night. At 6:35 a.m.--20 minutes after I should have gotten up--Muzzy simply came and sat by my side of the bed and breathed on me. She didn't want to go out when I opened the back door. She just looked at me as if to say, "Don't want you to be late!" What a good girl.

PSS: Sorry the art is so lame. Blogger is having technical difficulties and won't let me load photos or images that are larger than a thumbnail. As always, I appreciate your patience.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

The Dog Parkist: Crazy Guy Speaks

Q: Allow me to introduce myself. I'm the guy that lives in the last house along the 45th Street side of the so-called "dog park." Perhaps you've seen my signs. They say that the "dog park" is not a "dog park." Because it's not. I'd like everyone to know that since moving into my house, I've scraped 12--no, 20,--no 12--dead dogs off of 45th Street. I'm just so gosh-darned tired of having to call those sorority girls to tell them that their dogs are dead, all 12-20 of them. I'd just like you "people" to know that you and your dogs pose a danger to everybody else. Everybody else. You're ruining everything with your off-leashness and your indifference to humanity. Haven't  you heard about the head-on collision that took place in front of my house that may or may not have been caused by a dog? I simply don't understand why you can't be more professional. I just wish you'd let one of  your dogs bite me where we could see it on the video surveillance. Then we go to court and settle this "thing" once and for all. Because no court in the world would convict me! Hey, don't you think that's a good "idea"? 
—Crazy Guy from 45th Street
P.S. Maximum, maximun. You know what the sign means, law breakers. I may not be able to spell, but I don't go around scoffing the law by driving motorized vehicles or drinking from open containers  on state property. And even if I do, it's because I have MAXIMUN RESPEKT for THE LAW. 

A: My dear Crazy Guy, you are far too modest. You are not crazy at all; you are certifiably insane. Even if your argument made the least bit of sense or had the least bit of legal viability, the very fact that you and your thuggish, beer-swilling friends consistently target and threaten women walking alone with their dogs shows that you lack all breeding and intelligence. Indeed, you lack even a grain of human decency or a thread of moral fiber. You are a cad, an oaf, and a moron. The Dog Parkist does not like to speak so plainly, but you deserve not one iota of respect from her or from the hard-working, pleasant, socially responsible people who wish to walk their dogs undisturbed on a patch of land that only narrowly borders your property. So crawl back under the Shoal Creek bridge where you belong, you troll, and think about your disgraceful actions and  your despicable behavior. No salutation for you, nor thanks for writing. Indeed!

P.S. It's 10 pm somewhere. Do you know where your sign is? I doubt it very much. 

Dear Readers: The Dog Parkist is no longer in a good humor today. She will retire to her chaise with a cool cloth over her eyes and think calming thoughts for the duration. It is a good idea, she thinks, if you hold off any further questioning until she regains her normal composure. Thank you. 

Monday, August 24, 2009

The Last Thing I See as I Head to Work

Well, Muzzy, somebody has to earn the bucks to buy the kibble. 

Roma says, "Don't let the door hit you in the ass on your way out." 

Sunday, August 23, 2009

The Only Lovely Thing About August in Texas . . .

. . . is the sun setting over Dog Park.