Bucks and dogs.

Bloomberg Opinion got a world of heat earlier this month for publishing helpful tips for peasants trying to deal with inflation while making under $300,000 per year. Writer Teresa Ghilarducci, an economics professor at a so-called college called the New School of Social Research (most New Yorkers know what a joke that place is), had a whole heap o' tips for us plain folks out here in trailer park America, such as eating lentils instead of meat and selling our cars to take public transportation. 

The incredible shrinking
dead presidents

A lot of people among the 99% of Americans who make less than $300K seemed to take issue with the statement, including myself. We're complaining not just because of the pain we feel now, not just because we watch whatever money we may have saved become less valuable by the day, but also because we know this inflationary trend was entirely avoidable by the government not making all the hubristic blunders it has made since 2019. So being lectured by the kind of people who made the errors is kind of off-putting.

Many plain folk know just fine how to deal with inflation. Hunt your own meat. Don't buy scallops. Skip the brand-name goods for store-brand items. Don't go out to the movies or to pro sports. Don't go on Disney vacations of any kind. Make jokes to keep your spirits up. And vote against the morons of our terrible upper class who put us in this predicament.

One stupid statement among several made by the "professor" is this: 

If you’re one of the many Americans who became a new pet owner during the pandemic, you might want to rethink those costly pet medical needs. It may sound harsh, but researchers actually don’t recommend pet chemotherapy — which can cost up to $10,000 — for ethical reasons.

I searched for le mot juste to describe this and finally found it: Bullshit. I do not believe that veterinarians don't recommend pet chemotherapy, and I don't know what "researchers" she's referring to. Medical scientists? Animal activists? Economists? Vegans? Who the hell is she talking about? Certainly any decent vet will tell a pet owner if chemo is a lost cause and is just worsening or prolonging the pet's agony. That's what they did for our Nipper, and we let him go.

But Tralfaz is a totally different story. When he turned out to have cancerous lumps, including one that occluded his eye, we were advised to try lomustine for six months. One dose per month. Cost: $125 a month. An expense that might be tough for some households, no question, but not a deal-breaker by any means. Moreover, he has responded magnificently to the drug. The lumps are gone, including the one that occluded his eye, and he's doing fantastic. I had prayed he could get one more good winter with us, his favorite season, and he did, and he's still going strong. Moreover, he has had no side effects that I can tell. Not even an upset stomach. The worst part was just getting him to swallow the pills whole.

Had we listened to Dr. Asshat and her "researchers," I am certain we would have saved a few hundred bucks and Fazzy would be dead by now. 

Now, pardon me, because I'm going to go take both of my happy, healthy dogs out for a nice, long walk. 

P.S.: Undergraduate tuition and fees for a year at the New School is $73,376. I have a great idea to help the students there save money....

Cruel to be kind.

I poisoned one dog on Saturday, and I'm turning the other over to strangers to be cut up on Friday.

I'm feeling kind of guilty over it. You can't explain it to them. But it's for their own good. 

Big dog Tralfaz, who just turned eight, got these giant lumps on him last summer. Once some initial tests and a lumpectomy confirmed that it was cancer, we started him on radioactive chemotherapy. Just two pills, once a month, for six months. The first two doses worked splendidly, and the remaining lumps receded. His liver enzymes shot up too, so the vet said give it a month off and then start it again. So, I just did.

These chemo pills cannot be chewed, of course, and getting capsules into this hairy beast is a challenge. Ultimately I have settled on tricking him with the offer of a treat and then shoving them into his throat far enough so he has to swallow them. He coughed one up anyway, so I had to repeat it--and I have to move fast because those gel caps dissolve quickly. I only have the two, specially ordered from a compounding pharmacy; I don't have a whole bottle of chemo pills like aspirin. 

Dogs will never understand that the faster you swallow something, the less you have to taste it. It's the only way anyone eats kale, or so I'm convinced. 

The pills kill his appetite for a day or two, but he's otherwise doing marvelously well on them. I am in fact poisoning him; that's how chemotherapy works. Paracelsus stated a long time ago that the dose makes the poison, thus chemotherapy's mission is to kill you just enough to wipe out the cancer without actually going all the way. Some people on it react so poorly that they prefer to just let the cancer take its course. I'm grateful that Tralfaz is not suffering this much. We had decided out the outset of treatment that if this was very hard on him, we would stop the chemo, but so far so good. 

He's an older guy, and while we can't explain it to him, presumably has that philosophical nature that older dogs get about the misfortunes and vicissitudes of life. Baby Izzy, almost but not quite nine months old, does not have this attitude. But what he does have is loose cartilage in his elbows, and hip bones that aren't quite large enough to keep the leg bones from popping out from time to time. The latter doesn't seem to bother him as much as the sound of it bothers us, but the vet assures us that his hips will be arthritic and painful when he is older unless we get him a hip replacement. He's too young for that now, but they can do arthroscopic surgery on his elbows. 

They'll probably have to keep him at least one night, and there's the rub--this is the dog who can't stand it if I go upstairs for a shower while my wife's working. He hates to be alone and isn't shy about telling us. It's made for all sorts of problems at bedtime. How's he going to take it when we have to leave him at the animal hospital overnight?

Luckily the hospital is a 24-hour facility, so there will be staff around; also, they will probably keep him doped up pretty solid from the time we drop him off Friday. But I'll worry about the little dude the whole time he's gone.

On a less sentimental note, this is costing a fortune. Tralfaz has pet insurance, which helps, but Izzy started to limp at a very young age, before he was insured; we thought he'd just twisted something, so we took him to the vet. Bam, preexisting condition, no expenses at all can be charged to his health policy. Bleah.

All this comes on the heels of losing Nipper last February. He also had cancer, but it was so incredibly aggressive that there was no treatment that could help. Poor little chap. 

I wish I could explain everything to them in a way they would understand, but of course you can't. It makes me wonder how parents with babies who need serious medical care keep from losing their minds. God bless them all. 

Fred's Book Club: Pet and 'Net.

Welcome, friends, to another episode in the Humpback Writers series, which runs every week on Wednesday, or Hump Day. Are there actually humps, or camels, or anything like that connected to these books? Beats me. Humps be damned! Sometimes these things are only even books by a stretch of the imagination. 

That applies today, as we have a look at the sad remains of what once, briefly, was a titan of the Internet bubble, now almost entirely forgotten. I am referring to the "author" of a novelty book produced during that wild era, a book featuring a character that was for a short time one of the most popular advertising mascots in the world. And this is that book:

Those of us over age 23 or so will probably remember the brief renown of the commercials for Pets.com. This was a pet supply site founded in 1998 for that World Wide Web thingy, which was advertised by a wacky sock puppet in the shape of a dog, voiced by actor Michael Ian Black. This is that dog, and this is the short book that featured some of his signature humor. 

These are three spreads from the book, and there's not a whole lot more; as it promises on the back cover, "as much as I could fit on a roll of 35mm film." That's about all there is to it. It's short and funny, meant to cash in on the popularity of the commercials. Unfortunately that was about the only thing Pets.com did cash in on. 

In these days of streaming TV I wonder if we'll ever have such an advertising phenomenon again. The puppet was interviewed on network television -- it even was a float in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. So naturally branded sock puppet products like this book would follow.

This was an era when bales of funding went to any old startup online, after which the entrepreneurs would reveal that they didn't know what they were doing, didn't have any idea how to get a customer base that would support the massive spending used to get things going, were only interested in blowing money on pool tables and employee backrubs and high salaries and nothing else, or some other combination of incompetence and malfeasance. As noted in Wikipedia's necropsy of the site, "Although sales rose dramatically due to the attention [of the sock puppet], the company lost money on most of its sales through mismanagement. Its high public profile during its brief existence made it one of the more notable victims of the dot-com bubble in the 2000s." I'd heard that Petco bought much of the remains of the property, but now the URL Pets.com leads you to the PetSmart site.

Running a pet supply site can be tricky. Pet food in any bulk, canned or bagged, is quite heavy and expensive to ship. Pet owners who know that regulation of pet products is nothing compared to that for human products are often wary of buying online, or at least they were in 2000. Amazon started a pet site called Wag (after losing its own stake in Pets.com), but has pretty much folded it into the regular site now. The real breakout in the field was Chewy.com, which we at Key Casa have found to be an amazing and dedicated site for pet owners. Unfortunately it was bought by PetSmart, whose own site was so-so, but so far Chewy has remained very good and we are regular customers.

As for the sock puppet -- well, you may remember that for a while he was doing ads for auto loans, saying "everyone deserves a second chance." But the ads were not funny, just sad; someone else was doing his distinctive voice, and it was not quite right. It all came to an end soon enough. Sic transit gloria puppi, and all that. 

But in this era where sock puppets are so often in the news, sometimes serving as our politicians, let's pause for a moment to remember a really popular sock puppet, who had a day in the sun that was so brilliant, it was doomed to burn out quickly.

Things are hoppin'!

As with last week, I reached a point this week where everything cascaded on me at once. That was Thursday. It started at 1:36 a.m., when large economy-size dog Tralfaz decided he had to go to the bathroom. We discourage this kind of thing, but what can you do? He really had to go.

The broken sleep was worse than usual, because the break was wide. I had trouble getting back to dreamland. So not only was it one of those days that are often called One Of Those Days, but I also faced it semi-exhausted, tired enough to feel sick. Fortunately, I was not actually sick and tired; just tired.

To make this lame blog post up to you, I want to introduce you to my newest pet. His name is Galileo Hammersmith Holyoke Snord. G. Hammersmith for short.

He is a frog, about the size of a quarter. I saw him Wednesday night on the walkway while leading smaller family-size dog Nipper out to use the lawn. G. Hammersmith was minding his own business, but since he was on my property, I declared him to be mine. He is a clever chap, whose interests include snowboarding, electric trains, and the history of avocado farming. He used to sell for Amway but switched to Tupperware. He thinks The Big Sleep is good but not as good as The Maltese Falcon. He feels that pale yellow is a good color on him. He prefers Mary Ann to Ginger, Bailey to Jennifer, and Miriam to Nancy. He can't golf, but he likes to watch it on TV. Also, he leaped into the grass and vanished a second after I took this photo.

Farewell, G. Hammersmith! Thank you for the many seconds of joy you brought us. We shall miss you. May the lawn mowers of life never darken your lily pad.

Outrage of the day?

An ad popped up for me from Chewy, fine Internet provider of pet stuff. We order from Chewy all the time, because I'd rather have the UPS man deal with 40-pound sacks of dog food than do it myself. And even being purchased by PetSmart last year has not ruined Chewy's outstanding customer service.

The ad featured doggie Halloween (sorry, Howl-oween) costumes, which PetSmart's stores have been pushing since July. As I've noted before, PetSmart gets the Halloween stuff out even before my notoriously early supermarket does. Here was the costume that caught my eye:

Yes, indeed, the Holy Hound Pope Dog Costume by California Costumes. Cute, huh? But shouldn't that be Howly Hound?

So. As a Catholic, I look at this and think: I should probably be offended. I'm not one of those dog owners who thinks Dogs = People, let alone Dogs > People. I do think dogs are great and useful and lots of fun, and if we weren't in charge of the joint then I'd hope the dogs would get a shot. I do not, however, think that a dog would make a good pope.

I feel like I should take offense, as if this were mocking the pope. Then again, I have to admit they did a really good job with the chasuble and miter, but I think the papal stole is not worn with the miter because the latter is used when celebrating Mass, and during Mass the pope wears the zucchetto (skullcap). I could be wrong; the pope wears about 8,782 articles of clothing with choir dress and it's hard for a non-cradle Catholic like me to remember it all. Anyway, it's a good likeness and you'd know what the dog was supposed to be immediately. And I am glad that, while some design elements were changed for paws, the Cross remains, albeit made of bones. (Also glad that that other universal symbol of doghood, the fire hydrant, was not used.)

My offense builds, though, when the auto-offense generators in my mind kick in: This is the kind of thing that is bought for the dogs of Catholic haters. It is not done out of respect. I'll bet you'll see some of these in the Greenwich Village parade. They'd never, EVER sell an imam costume. And so on.

On the other hand, I think it's cute. I wish the Holy Father could inspire as much love as people have for their dogs. I think Francis would probably find it amusing. He's not a Franciscan (he's a Jesuit), but by taking the name of St. Francis you have to think he is devoted to the great saint, famous for his love of all God's creatures.

And on the third hand -- or paw -- I can decide not to take offense, laugh at the humor of it, and not care. I don't think every damn thing has to result in a world war anymore. We need to laugh stuff off, and with a kindly laugh, not an irritated HA! or clapter or any of the other things that pass for a real laugh these days.

On the final paw: I wouldn't buy it for my dogs, because they are too huge and they hate hats. They'd make bad popes.

Limitations of dogs.

You all know that I love my dogs. Well, if this is your first visit to this page, you may not. Let me explain: I love my dogs. There, that's settled.

But -- and with dogs, there's always a but, usually being sniffed -- dogs have some serious limitations. For example: People may not be aware of this, but a dog license does not actually empower your dog to drive a motor vehicle! I know, right? Crazy!

SMDH.

Embarrassed.

Here are some other limitations of dogs that I have had to learn the hard way.

🐕 Dogs can't do their own nails. You always have to take them out to get a pedi-pedi. And guess who pays? You!

🐕 On that point, dogs never have any money. Go ahead, ask your dog if you can borrow a few bucks and get ready for his lame excuses. They never even carry wallets! If a dog asks you to lunch, I guarantee he'll claim he lost his wallet when the check comes.

🐕 No matter how hard it's raining or how much you have to hold, you can't get the dog to carry the umbrella.

🐕 If your dog volunteers to clean the toilet, don't let him. He'll just lick it. Which doesn't actually clean it to exacting specifications.

🐕 Dogs make lousy dental hygienists.

🐕 Dogs are also terrible cooks.

🐕 And don't ask them to do the dishes. They do dishes the same way they clean the toilet. Sometimes right afterward.

🐕 You may get excited when your dog says he has a gift for you. Calm down. It's either something dead, something almost dead, or something previously digested. Dogs don't order from catalogs.

🐕 Dogs cannot read. This is one reason they are lousy co-pilots. They cannot read maps and they're useless with smartphones. You may think that lending your dog a pair of reading glasses will enable him to read. A common mistake.

🐕 Dogs interview well, and yet almost never have jobs. Why is that? They just hang around all the time.

🐕 Dogs never clean up after themselves. After band practice, or the game? Frito bags everywhere.

So those are, like, the top limitations of dogs. It's clear their reputation for being helpful comes from their comparison to other, less helpful pets like cats.

It's a darn good thing for our canine freeloaders that they're so cute and pettable. Otherwise we might as well just get hamsters or iguanas.

Got your tongue?

A cat-loving friend of mine likes to say, "If cats could talk, they would lie to you."

Back to obedience school time.

Oh, come on, PetSmart.

First of all, it is July 15, and as you may know I am very much against premature back-to-schoolism. I understand that there are multiple issues at play here. In many places students have been running amok since May. But in New York the kids were slogging it out until two weeks ago. Do we really have to start rubbing it their faces now?

For national companies like PetSmart, Walmart, and even those that cover large regions like Shoprite, somewhere within their bailiwick students are going back in about a month, so let's get Mom and Dad thinking about the school supply specials. Which is still, to the child within me, mean. I don't care if you start school August 8; you should be allowed a carefree July. It will not happen again for most of us until we're too old to enjoy it anyway.

But as I say, in New York the kids just got out, and won't be going back for a month and a half. Is it too much to ask to wait two more weeks to roll out the back-to-school things?

And yet that too is only part of the issue here, because this is PetSmart. The things in the photo are dog toys. Are the dogs going back to school? I do not think so. Not unless obedience class happens to start soon, or the dog is an assistance dog accompanying a human student to school.

Dogs and cats don't know that it's (soon to be) back-to-school time. I know that they don't know that it's Christmas or Halloween or any of the other events for which companies supply seasonal toys for them either, but we get them these things as a way for them to have fun along with us at holidays. "Everybody gets a treat at Halloween, even Sophie McMophie!" Are we really so desperate to pretend to our kids that returning to education is fun that we have to make the pets into unindicted co-conspirators? Are we so bored that we have to turn the buying of crayons and notebooks into a national holiday, a holiday whose date we can't even agree to?

It's all pretty stupid, and I will not be part of it. Although when a bunch of these toys turn up in the discount bin when the Halloween stuff arrives I will be willing to buy them cheap for Destructo Pup, who still treats his toys cavalierly to say the least. He doesn't care if they're out of season, even though they won't be, because PetSmart celebrates Halloween in July. Seriously, it's the only store I know that has seasonal clearances before the actual holiday occurs.

Humans as masters, as pets.

I know it's not an original science fiction idea, but since we got Number One Dog I've occasionally wondered what it would be like as a human pet of superintelligent aliens, aliens who are as intellectually superior to us as we are to dogs. It's certainly a notion that has occurred to SF writers before.  But there are some real stumbling blocks to the idea:

1) If we were smart enough to know what those aliens were thinking and doing, we'd be them. A writer trying to create the situation would have to come up with things as baffling to us as, say, raking leaves, painting pictures, balancing checkbooks, or writing blogs are to animals. But for them to be inscrutable to humans they'd have to look like nonsense, which would make for a dull story. On the other hand, if they're just doing stuff we do in a smarter way---teleportation instead of driving---we'd easily grasp the reason, if not the method.

2) People aren't dogs. My dogs don't sit around and wonder why I wear clothes, let alone why I make them learn to heel. I would do that constantly as a pet of an alien creature. No matter how frustrating it was, I would keep thinking, trying to learn, trying to understand, because that's what we do. It makes us crazy sometimes, but we never stop. Dogs? Cats? Eh, not so much. They can figure out some things like how to turn on the light, or get up on the counter they're not allowed on, but that's because when their desires are directly affected, they can understand the easy, concrete cause and effect. They keep it simple. (I know, I know, YOUR cat is a Rhodes scholar, but I mean other normal cats, okay?)

3) This is also why stories narrated from the point of view of pets are pure fantasy. A cat is never going to solve a crime. He doesn't understand enough to know what a crime is. He wouldn't care if he did, as long as it didn't affect him. The smartest dog in the world is never going to think like the dumbest human, because their brains are different machines used in a different way. Animals are excellent at survival and certainly get up and at it faster than we do, but they have no imagination. (I began writing this yesterday, but this morning I see the Great Lileks went into the people vs. animals comparison at length.)

Although the dogs don't worry about why I do all the weird stuff I do, they sure aren't dummies. I think they definitely have some ideas about the things and people they encounter. For example, Number One Dog knows that when we're out in the yard and I am saddled with Number Two Dog on the leash, Number One can get away with more crap. He doesn't push the envelope, he shoves it, running into the neighbors' yard, peeing in prohibited areas, ignoring every call and sound effect I can produce. Basically he's always a little bit of a jerk outside, but he turns into a complete teenager when I have the kid. At times like that, he sees Daddy as:

On the other hand, when the kid is acting up inside and making a ruckus, it is sometimes asked of me that I put him in his pen or the crate. Like a toddler he gets overtired and becomes a brat. "Would you put him in the pen?" is the question I get asked more than any other, partly because as big as he is I can still manhandle him as needed. Since Mommy is the boss, you know what that makes me:

At times like that he sees me as the cheap muscle.

So our pets definitely have humanlike perceptions, and humanlike elements about them, as well as definite personality traits. (At least the mammals; I've had little experience with fish and reptiles.) But they're not humans.

Please do bear in mind that I'm a guy who makes cartoons about how my pets think, and when they sneeze I say gesundheit. So maybe I'm not a great one to write about this topic. I'd love to hear your thoughts. And if you know of any writers who actually have carried off the people-as-pets idea well, I'd like to know.

Dog toys.

Tralfaz and I disagree on a few things, as longtime readers of this space will know. Dogs and we have different priorities. I do not approve of his plan to lick the inside of my mouth to see what I've been eating, and have disallowed it. He thinks my refusal to provide treats on demand is some breakdown of the human/dog convention. We agree to disagree, though, and go on as best we can.

We also disagree on what his best toys are. He likes the kind you can fill with treats the best, but for outside play he's a big fan of anything you can quite literally sink your teeth into. He enjoys Frisbees, sure, but they aren't very pliable. A good, tough football-like object is more his speed. But not an actual football; with his teeth he would deflate that sucker faster than Tom Brady's equipment manager.

I, on the other hand, am a big fan of the Flying Squirrel by Chuckit!

It flies like a Frisbee, but it's made of a flexible fabric; that and its wingtips cause it to bank and even boomerang much better than a Frisbee. When thrown properly it can make amazing curves, banks, dips, and rises. It is extremely tough; Tralfaz has chewed on it hard and played tug-of-war with it, and it spent a month buried under semipermafrost in the backyard last winter with no ill effects. Tralfaz enjoys it, don't get me wrong, but it's not his favorite. It is mine.

Don't just take my word for it; here's a product review done by a thoughtful dog owner with more time on his hands than I have:

And remember, it's not all that weird to enjoy playing with your pet's toys, with or without the pet:

PetDumb?

I love PetSmart. My wife loves PetSmart. My dog loves PetSmart. It's fun to shop there. We've done grooming there. We've done training there. The staff is very friendly. They somehow keep the place clean. They have most of the stuff we need, and some stuff we didn't know we needed until we saw it there, which is good retailing. Yes, I love PetSmart.

But I hate this:

and this:

He's my DOG. I'm his OWNER. He is NOT MY CHILD. He is wonderful and I dote on him and I blog about him way too much, but I am his MASTER. When I am not, and he gets away with things, we both wind up unhappy. I am NOT A PET PARENT. He is an ANIMAL. Yes, as a human, I am technically an animal too, but it takes a sentimental sap or an evolutionary biologist to be foolish enough to think there's no difference.

I used to say that people were very weird about sex, death, and money. I still believe that. But I think I may have to add animals to the list.

On the one hand, we have the ooey-gooeys, the ones PetSmart thinks they are marketing to, who have confused a domesticated creature with the children they did not have or do not get affection from. On the other, you have the evolutionary biologist, surely the most cynical creature in the world. who talks about the means by which our dogs learn to "simulate affection" (as one noted on TV the other night; did not catch the name of the show).

Presumably the biologist simulates affection himself on Mother's Day. After all, he thinks humans are just Animals 2.0.

Somewhere in the middle is the rest of us. And the Catholic Church:

The very essence of the moral law is that we respect and obey the order established by the Creator. Now, the animal is a nobler manifestation of His power and goodness than the lower forms of material existence. In imparting to the brute creation a sentient nature capable of suffering — a nature which the animal shares in common with ourselves — God placed on our dominion over them a restriction which does not exist with regard to our dominion over the non-sentient world. We are bound to act towards them in a manner conformable to their nature. We may lawfully use them for our reasonable wants and welfare, even though such employment of them necessarily inflicts pain upon them. But the wanton infliction of pain is not the satisfaction of any reasonable need, and, being an outrage against the Divinely established order, is therefore sinful.

So there's that.

We've probably all seen too many talking animal movies and books and TV shows. It's hard not to project human behaviors onto animals whether it's appropriate or not. Tralfaz looks very thoughtful sometimes, laying on the floor, eyes open, I can ponder what he's thinking, because I would be thinking about something while laying down and not sleeping. But he's not thinking. He's just there. He may be processing bits of information my senses can't even detect, but he's not thinking about people and events of the past or plans for the future. He's just there. But it's easy for me to imagine all kinds of thoughts in his animal head, and think of him as a little fuzzy person, and then go eat hamburgers. (And feed him meat.)

I'll say this: At least people who project human thoughts and feelings on pets and think of them as children, and are vegetarians or vegans, are consistent. Then again, you might say the same for an evolutionary biologist cannibal.

They call this living.

The living room, as I am just the latest to note, is surely the most poorly named room in the house, and that includes bathrooms that only have a toilet and sink.

You could, after all, bathe in the sink if you had to, or the toilet, I suppose, in some dire emergency. But to date no one has ever lived in a living room.

It's partly a definitional thing. If you take out the breakfront, the good furniture, and the expensive lamp so that you have a place you can throw the kids, it is no longer a living room. It is now a rumpus room. No rumpusing has ever occurred in a living room, either. Rumpus rooms, family rooms, playrooms, TV rooms, kids' rooms---these are all latter-day rooms developed to cope with that big dead spot called the living room.

In my youth, and I'm sure in many youths before and since, the living room was completely barred from living. Plastic coated the furniture in case anyone lived on it. Fences were put up to keep anyone alive from wandering in, generally any of the four-footed or small-footed creatures one finds in a home.

Pretty much everyone had them. Pic found on SodaHead.

But who would want to go into a room, especially on a warm, humid day, and sit on plastic? Getting up was like peeling a five-foot Band-Aid off your butt.

When you wanted to entertain, you might have guests in the living room. That's what it was for. But when you wanted to have fun, you brought them into the eat-in kitchen. The kitchen is always better.

Back in the days when the wake was held in the home of the deceased (and the family kept a vigil all night---thus the wake), where would you put the stiff? Damn straight---dead guy in the living room. So go figure that.

Couples starting out with their first home might bring the living room through many phases, none of which include life:

1) No kids -- no furniture, either. Room is empty or used for storage.

2) Furniture -- but young adults are used to hanging out in the kitchen anyway, where the beer and chips are.

3) Kids -- now the living room becomes a sealed-off place of mystery.

4) Older kids -- and now NO ONE goes in their anymore, ESPECIALLY YOU KIDS, because we WILL have nice things in this house, even if no one EVER SEES them.

5) Empty nest -- who needs this big house? Everything gets crammed into the living room-less retirement home/condo.

Maybe we should go back to calling them sitting rooms. At least it is possible to sit in them. Unlike living.

Guys who dig chicks.

I love Easter, but one of the things that concerns me about the way we celebrate is when people give animals as gifts, especially to children who can't possibly be expected to care for them. Rabbits are not great for small kids, and in many ways are not what people want in a pet. Dogs and cats are predators, and may look up to you as the boss predator. Rabbits are prey, and may expect to become lunch.

Worse than that are baby chicks. Carnival goldfish are probably more likely to live to a ripe old age than an Easter basket chick. And under the best of conditions, chicks make terrible pets. Sure, they look cute at first.

But after you slavishly devote time to bringing it up, what do you have? A nasty ol' bird that craps on everything.

If you got a chick for Easter and you don't live on a farm, or you gave one to someone who doesn't live on a farm, do the right thing. Get that baby bird somewhere where it will grow up to be a healthy, happy adult.

And then we can have it for lunch!

Wardrobe malfunction.

"Yes, Toby, I just KNOW you're going to LOVE your new kitty sweater!"

More thoughts from the Guinea Pig.

Came back for more, eh? Didn't get enough last time?

I enjoy the pet store. All of you safely behind glass---quite calming.

If you're going to hang about, would you mind putting some vodka in my water bottle? Spasibo.

These wood shavings are adequate, but I prefer giant sequoia. Ring for the boy.

Sure, pick me up. It's piddle time.

Don't bother me while Property Brothers is on.

In fact, don't bother me while anything I watch is on. Like CNN.

Your kind would never appreciate me. What kind are you, you ask? Human.

Before you consider the purchase of a so-called pocket pet, you should get his home set up. I recommend the Habitrail Malibu Dream House.

You know why we're called pocket pets? Guess where our favorite place to poop is?

By the way, the noun pet comes from a back formation of petty, as in small, like petit. It just means we're smaller than you. It does not mean you should stroke, muss, rub, or otherwise attempt to show affection in your typical ham-handed way. The verb form came later and should not be taken seriously.

Did you enjoy the new Transformers film? You would.

Were you aware that Mozart was composing at the age of five? And how old are you now?

They say people and their pets tend to look more alike over time. As much as it would benefit you, please, for the love of God, do not purchase me.

Gerbil? You called me a gerbil? Go over to the grooming aisle, select some powerful soap, and wash your filthy mouth out NOW.

From the heart of hell I nibble at thee!

Star-crossed lovers.

You hate when a friend has a terrible breakup. Your heart aches for him.

So will mine, if he ever finds out about it.

When Tralfaz came to live with us not quite five months ago, he was a fuzzy little fellow, twenty pounds of boisterous puppy. The girl next door fell madly in love. He parents had had a bad experience with an angry little mutt once and were unwilling to get a dog. Never mind -- she didn't want just any dog. "I want him!" she said. She patiently---even heroically---endured his nipping and jumping. As for Tralfaz, he fell for her like a sack of fire hydrants. Every time we went to the yard, night or day, that dog would gaze longingly at the house next door, pining, mooning, hoping his girlfriend would appear. 

Well, things have changed. 

Tralfaz has put on fifty pounds since then, all muscle and bone and fuzz; he was always destined to be a big boy. His daddy weighs 120 or so. It's unbelievable how fast our dog grew. You feel like you could see it happen before your eyes. I'm amazed there's anything left of his food to poop; he seems to convert it all into dog as quickly as he eats it.

So all of a sudden he is heavier than the girl, and if you get him up on his hind legs, taller too. While the nipping and jumping and mouthing has toned down, he is still a puppy---a great, big, huge puppy---so we have not been able to train the behavior out of him entirely. When he gets excited, his brain is like an Etch A Sketch---bonk!---everything gone. 

Now she's scared of him. And I don't blame her. 

So the great romance is over. 

She'll look at him sadly from behind the fence. He'll moon in her direction once in a while. But for the most part he's gotten distracted with all the many people out there to love and jump on. Yesterday she got out of the car and wouldn't even turn her face his way. If he could understand why she won't come see him anymore, he'd be brokenhearted. 

 

Ah, Tralfaz! Ah, humanity!

Thoughts from the Guinea Pig.

No, I'm not looking at you today. You disappoint me. No.

My hands are not pink because I washed so many dishes. Guinea pigs do not wash dishes.

I suppose I am rather cute, but that is a relative thing. Compared to you, the tarantula a few cages down is cute.

Guinea pigs are nearsighted. Would you mind taking a few steps back from the glass?

What do you mean, hamster? I'm not a dad-blasted hamster. Hamsters are the scum of the earth. I eat hamsters for lunch, I'll have you know.

So no, I do not hamsterdance and I will never hamsterdance.

Elizabeth I had guinea pigs. Elizabeth II has dogs. And they wonder about the decline of the aristocracy.

The main problem with being in the pet store is not the other pets, let's just say that.

Yes, I only live four to five years, but if I have to be around people all that time it will feel considerably longer.

Why the name guinea "pig"? Well, perhaps I am related to your mother somehow.

You may be able to afford me, but you shall never be able to fulfill me.