A Blog’s Chance ( CW has dug into the archives now…)

I just received notice of an acceptance package into a nursing program I had applied to over a year ago. I should be elated and bouncing off walls much like my puppy’s tennis ball when in play. Except I am not.

I am having mixed emotions about continuing this venture. I am an older student reinventing another career after playing stay-at-home-mom for the past fifteen years and sacrificing my worldly goods for the betterment of raising children. I am sitting on the white picket fence now about attending this program for many reasons;

One major issue is the cost of the program. This is an expenditure that has a healthy bite to it and I am at a time in my life where I should be mimicking menopause in the Mediterranean and petting my pup while we lap up the Chianti and gnaw on biscotti;  Instead of pawing at textbooks containing fonts that even my +250 reading glasses can’t pick up. Come to think of it the only glass worth picking up should be half full of red wine.

I am an older student and am competing with young bloods. So far I have been superseding  this nouveau wild bunch, but they still act like I’m the token geriatric for the course. Sometimes I feel as though I don’t have a dog’s chance in getting through this, much like the hits I have been getting lately on this blog, and all time low.  Someone suggested I turn this blog into a book, she actually called me a “good writer”. I have been tauted as being funny, clever, and witty, but never referenced as a good writer. To me that was an ultimate compliment. I started to give this writing a chance but I didn’t know how to transform my blogging into an actual book.

I was out with a friend the other day driving to a bar and grill to discuss,… well, to discuss,….. um, anything.   As she drove through the maze of rural blacktop now covered in dirty snow, I mentioned to her the prospectus of making this “Bloggie with Doggie” into a manuscript. She likened the idea but pondered on the meat of the book. I mentioned my thoughts to her about” aligning my puppy perils with the coping mechanisms of menopause…… without the prescribed meds”.

She turned the green chevy sedan through filthy snowbanks and muttered something about…. “making it more dirty..”.

I reiterated that that was a possibility and; “I guess I could add some porn to perk up the readers libido, after all doesn’t sex and filth sell well? Much  like my over priced puppy products at Pet Smartie?”.

My friend slowed down to a speed where I could recognize and read the street signs and she turned to me laughing:

“You Moron, I was referring to the snow, I can’t believe how dirty it is”.

 So I guess trying to add “Charly-dog Does Dallas” or “Deep doggie Throat” a dog’s fun with a Cautionary Tail, is not on the menu?

Fine then, just order me a martini that matches the melting snow…..Dirty….. stirred not plowed.

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If You can’t run with the blogs,Stay on the Porch

I keep seeing ads everywhere for drugs that cure depression that include a grandfather clause of  “adverse symptoms” longer  than Iron Butterfly’s drum solo from In-A-Gadda-Da-Vita.  I know depression is a serious matter and not to be taken lightly, but isn’t there abetter way than to just mask it with medication?

Maybe get a dog instead. My puppy perks my dog day afternoons.  You know those days where you stand in the shower with the warm water racing down your back washing away every thought that has your mind on postponement. You bask in the warmth of the pure (?) liquid   spewing in from the underground pipes that are re- routed from a DuPont run-off.

Those days when you are begging God for two more minutes under that toasty comforter before the morning commotion starts.

Those days where you sit on the front stoop stroking your dogs back and mumble -on about hormonal heartache.

 Those days where you are laying on the floor staring at the unpainted ceiling for over an hour listening to nothing.

Those days that make you feel separated from all the rest while you face the corners of your mind.

I can see why someone would want to pop a pill to help their elevator go all the way to the top. It’s easier. Just add water.

I think a puppy is a cure for depression and menopause. There is no way that a frisky mongrel will let you have an inch of downtime to dwell on yourself. Puppies are in constant motion and challenge you to try to keep up. They force you to get out there and walk amongst crowds while they bark their bobble heads off. They make you laugh your grey mater right through the dyed roots with their obscure performances as they race around life.  Dogs make every day a good day.

I was out with ex co-workers last night and we downed decorative martini’s that hailed from the Baroque era.  While the sumptuous liquor flowed through us we laid our doggie stories on the table. They own older dogs  and have a lot more experienced with their pets than I  do.

I listened intently as they offered up some mongrel counsel  while I scribbled their advice onto cocktail napkins. There were a lot of similarities in our puppy parables especially about our dogs having to relieve themselves in sub zero temperatures.

I was thankful to hear that one friends pit-bull absolutely refused to go out into the snow and pee. This dog is well past five years and lives in the same geographical region that mine does and should be well aware of the weather conditions by now, yet this dog decided on his own to refuse to go into the winter  blizzard aftermath and plant a daily deposit.

I asked her how she handled that situation.  And she just said:

” He just doesn’t go he holds it.”

Mind you the snow was lasting well over a week. There must be something genetically altered in a pit-bulls system that allows him to hold for an eternity.

Maybe there is Camel in their ancestry.

Maybe science needs to tap into this secret and apply it to three women over 50 who are out in a Thai  restaurant  fighting for the ladies room every half hour.

Maybe The owner should purchase a Potty Patch and  place it in a dark corner of the bar.

  My other friend has twin schnauzers and they have access to a doggie door. I researched these canine stairways to heaven and they are quite the event:

First, take your special order door off its hinges then you balance it across two saw horses and use a template to sketch the measured opening.

Second: you CUT a square into your raised paneled solid mahogany door and glue the leak proof rubber flap with a one way valve onto the external margin. “Protects against weather leaks, helps with potty accidents, and keeps the bugs out”.

Right. My puppy cost me fifty bucks, my house is worth over a half a mil…the only openings I’ll make in this building is the Front Door as I turn the knob and pull towards me and send my pup outside into the cold weather, making his potty accidents on the white turf, and keeping the bugs to himself.

It’s a dog’s life and I’m sure the lack of eco-high tech Latrine gadgets to accommodate my puppy’s tinkles will not enhance or help with potty mishaps. Besides Charly-dog hates change. He is a product of routine. Introducing a new change in his daily routine could result in a negative effect. Might cause a set back and he could retract and withhold his bladder like the Pit-bull.  Might turn that incontinence into aggression. Not Charly, he might fall prey to depression and just sleep all day.

My dog is too hyper to sleep all day, even if he were to dip into his Pill-Pockets.

One time the Vet gave me a prescription of a sedative for my dog. The prescribed amount was one pill a day to induce sleepiness in order for me to be able to trim his nails without the dog snapping at me.  I gave half the recommended dosage and waited for my dog to get drowsy and flop on his bed. Five hours later this puppy was racing around the house barking at drapery patterns.

I think mixing Mutts and Meds are hazardous to ones health.

Go See a Man about a Blog

My puppy  is surviving the winter better than I am. He doesn’t complain about the weather , well he can’t talk, he can only show me, and, well, I wouldn’t know what a dog complaint looked like.

Is it a growl or a whine or a refusal to eat his tasty Science chow. Or does the complaint come in a different fashion, like maybe diarrhea. How about runny poop droppings all over your front lawn covered with snow in 20 degree weather. I’m talking Hershey mini kisses laid out in the shape of the Big Dipper. I followed my pups constellations for over an hour until his well ran dry and all that was left were air astroids blowing holes in the ice.

I watched him travel the terrain of  my white cliffs of clover to find  a depository spot. I watched him scurry in circles sniffing through two feet of snow to find the appropriate patch to delegate his dog-doo. I watched his worried face grimace while he tried to control what was escaping him without permission from  his tail end. I watched him trek through the alpine with each paw sinking into the white abyss while he scavenged about to find another drop spot. I watched as the pure white blanket of snow slowly converted to the color of a Coca-Cola slushie.

I felt terrible for my eight month old puppy whose rear-end looked as if it were running from the law. I never knew a dogs system could be so sensitive, after all he is a dog. Dogs roamed the earth forever scrounging about in dumpsters out side dimly lit Italian restaurants sharing a string of spaghetti and chasing meatballs.

You never witness any Intestinal breakdowns with  Lady and the Tramp. Or how about all those  Dalmations  canvassing through a winter mayhem  eating everything off the ground and drinking out of Cruella’s puddles. Not one of those 101 offsprings gave the slightest inclination that they had a bowel problem even with all that twilight barking.

I wonder if Lassie experienced any  unfortunate irritabilities on the set. Yeah I could see it now, Lassie’s running to rescue Timmy in the well but has an attack of Montezuma’s Revenge  which causes him to retreat to a latrine with an “L’ on the door and leave Timmy to rot in hell. I never liked Timmy anyway.

I had to watch a lot of television as a kid and my mother would use the TV as a baby sitter instead of doing paper snowflake projects with me. I watched every episode of Lassie until he finally did go home. It was always the same saga: Timmy has trauma and Lassie cures it. I bet when they were done shooting the show Timmy would taunt Lassie and try to cajole  him so Timmy could take the lead. Probably during a break Timmy would offer Lassie a nice tidbit from the catered lunch table that would cause Lassie’s vitals  to evacuate all over the fake scenery. Try scraping that off cardboard. Now there’s a mess Timmy can’t contend with.

“Mommie mommie Lassie’s stuck in the Honeybucket lapping Pepto-Bismol….come quick….”  Cut. Take. That’s a belly blaster.

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I need help I mean serious help. My dog turns on me and growls and tries to bite my hands. The hands that feed him and walk him all hours of the day and night. The hands that bathe him and pet him and pick every last flea from his black and white coat. My puppy tries to ingest everything he comes across on the floor. His latest hors d’oeuvre was a rubber band pony tail tie that my daughter lost form her “too short to even attempt a pony tail” hair. My daughter constantly leaves small doggie non- edible tidbits around the house for our puppy to find and devour. Albeit a bobby pin, Ipod ear phones, or a piece of costume jewelry, she leaves a trail of tempting intestinal fortitudes for my dog to eat. I know when Charly has something in his mouth that he shouldn’t have because he will sit quietly in a corner with his mouth closed. Then he will walk over to you and parade his new forbidden snack right in front of you and chide you into attempting to retrieve from his clenched muzzle. He use to give it up but now he is forthright and determined to keep the morsel at all cost. Even if it he has to jump up and bite you to defend his treasure. You see, he thinks it is his right of passage to keep the item even if the right item doesn’t pass later. There are some items I let him keep if I know it wont be swallowed and I play the waiting game until boredom sets in and he leaves the article. We had another Mexican stand off in the laundry room with my daughters panties. This time it took 10 minutes of non movement from either one of us. I was in a two point stance and Charly started in a four point stance only to end in a sit down. He sat first. He sat with his jaws of life clamped onto the crotch revealing the letters Sunday outlined in pink. I waited the full ten minutes inching my hand closer to his mouth until only the Y was left hanging from his front tooth. My daughter informs me that our Dog is suffering from little man syndrome. What? He’s compensating for his height? He’s part chi- hua- hua for crying out loud. She says he thinks he’s Top Dog and is testing us and competing to be the ruler in our Kingdom. He’s no taller than a ruler and I can take him down with with every inch of my body. My daughter states that Charly believes he has every right to his new captive possession and garner it in his little kisser and deposit it where ever he pleases. When and if it passes. She says he needs to be taught intimidation and maybe pushed around a bit by some bigger bully-dogs. Maybe the big hounds will use Charly as a squeaky toy.  Maybe my daughter needs to mind her undies…. Maybe I’ll send him off to boot camp for FBI training at Quantico. Maybe enlist him in the Marine Core and have him scrubbing toilets with his dental chew. Yeah, do a little hard time in Sing-Sing. Become someone’s bitch. A little leash lashing, woof! That might cure his syndrome and knock him down(?) to size. Any smaller and I’ll be yielding a Yorkie.  Yeah, I could send him through the ropes of  doggie debauchery Or………………………

I could have him spend the weekend with my Jewish Mother-in-Law…G r-r-r-Oye Vey!

The Blog Ate My Homework

Does anyone really read blogs that don’t belong to infamous personalities like Brad and  Anjolina and their conglomerate of misfits that hang off his designer sweats? Do people think that stars or famous people are the only ones that have any substance to their lives? There are plenty of common folk that have a lot to contribute to society that have not starred in a feature film. I do not idolize film stars. Nor does my dog. Maybe if he met Lassie dining at The Brown Derby he might get a doggie biscuit caught in his throat when asking for a Paw-tograph. I have never been impressed by actors. I have never been star struck except once. Once when I was 17 I watched a comedy show called the Smother’s Brothers and they featured the writers in a guest spot. One up and coming newbie was a an unknown named Steve Martin. I watched this man perform the most idiotic and simplistic routines of comedy that a  first grader could accomplish. I watched him for the hour and laughed non stop for the next two hours. I was so impressed with this comedian that I vowed to myself that I had to meet him, and when I did meet him I was going to ask him to marry me. I was 17 at the time. I’m sure Steve would have whisked me off to the Ozarks where marrying a minor is the norm. My dream became a reality in the early 70’s when I was residing in Atlanta , Georgia. I was a flight  attendant with a then major airline, and would frequent a late night comedy club with my friends. It was called the Great Southeast Music Hall and Mr. Martin and his second billing, Mr. Martin Mull were playing one evening and I happened to be in the hallway during the crowded event. I made my way up to the side entrance to the stage and waited to peer over the numerous heads that blocked the view. As I stood there in anticipation of possibly catching a glimpse of my future husband to be ,someone nudged my back with a protruding instrument and diverted my attention from center stage. Someone was happy to see me. I turned around to reprimand the person poking my back with the head of a guitar and in the midst of my anger I realized it was the actor himself. Yes, Steve Martin was standing behind me holding his banjo and actually saying hello to me. I had been rehearsing in my mind all the things I wanted to say to him including my marriage proposal for the last three years, and at that moment when I turned around I had nothing to say except  comment on his missing beard. He was kind and funny and very polite, and I didn’t know why he even bothered to speak to me. I was a number in a crowd, but he made me feel like I was the only person there to see him on stage. I watched him do his schtick as I leaned against the wall in the back round with the awe and giddy-ness of a school girl receiving her first kiss. I stood against the back round with the other unfortunates who could not afford a seat and was blessed with the company of Martin Mull’s wife and later Steve himself stood with us. He was an unknown comic on the rise and I was standing a person apart from him. He had no Idea who I was and he did not pretend to be something other than what he was. A true comic and a human being. I stood on that back wall and felt as if I were part of this comic family and was treated as one of the siblings. I should have popped the question then. Later that evening I sat outside on a curb in the parking lot and the three- some walked to their car after their show. Steve turned to me and my friend and said “good night” and walked on with Mr. Mull and wife, and happen to kick a can across the lot as if he were in high school skipping a class. I had so much I wanted to say to Mr. Martin that night. So may lines I had rehearsed since I was 17 and when the time came I was the one with a doggie biscuit in my throat. I   have met other famous celebrity’s since that moment but have never lost my voice like I did with Mr. Martin. Some people just have that effect on you. I am not easily impressed by people, especially actors. I am more impressed with people that are capable of doing a heart transplant than people that show up on  the cover of US magazine because they managed to tackle Rehab for the 4th time… Personally I think Steve and I would have made a great couple. Given the chance. I think if I would have done my homework correctly I could have calculated my future with Mr. Martin.  I could have popped the question that evening while he toted a scotch in his left hand and strummed his banjo with his right. I’m sure he would  have accepted my full hearted proposal with the upmost sincerity…….. right after he called in the dogs..and  security.

If You Lie Down with the Blog, You Get Up with the fleas

My dog follows me everywhere and watches everything I do. At times I have found myself tripping over him during the haste of my daily rituals. I try to tell my puppy to chill over in a corner and chew some of his puppy toys, but be can’t be bothered with nonsense. He wants to be in the know. He has to be first on the scene of a breaking news story, even if the story involves my braking a nail.  He can be completely comatose laying in a sun spot from an open curtain in one room and leap across the house in pure ninja fashion if he hears an unusual noise. I truly believe that this dog never fully sleeps. He either is suffering form a deep doggie neurosis or panics from a sleeping disorder. There are times I have wanted to install a spy-cam in his room to see wether or not he truly sleeps through the night. Or he just fakes it and lies in his doggie bed surrounded by one eyed stuffed animals staring at him. The reason I don’t think he sleeps during the night is because he flat out “zones” during the day. Now,  he has  either found his way into my stash of xanax or he truly is tired around high noon. I think I found out what is really bothering him. His budding weenie. He is spending countless hours with his nose in between his hind legs doing his business whatever his business is. I guess it’s His business. We have been instructed to let him be during these moments but I find it highly offensive. At first I thought it was snow irritation to his sensitive underbelly, because Charly is forced to poop on four feet of snow. We have all shoveled a pathway for him but he still chooses the high road and scales Mt. Etna in the driveway. He got stuck halfway up the snow mountain and could not figure out how to go forward or turn around and head back down. So he just hung there with his front paws digging into the ice and his tail end suspended with his back feet peddling an invisible bicycle.  I ran over to help him, three torpedos dropped onto the snow below each the size of a Tootsie Roll that can be shared between three adults.  I was laughing so hard I neglected to see the patch of black ice under my boot and landed on my backside nearly sliding into Charly’s war zone.  Since we have had this three day blizzard in our state we have had to dig lengthy trenches for our dog to scamper about without getting buried in the snow. Thank God for the big black spots on his back that make him visible in this Dr. Zivago Land. My son decided to get creative and burrow a hole in one of the massive mounds on the drive so Charly could have a” short cut” through his doggie maze. He enjoyed this cave so much he wouldn’t come out. Which meant someone had to go in. We drew icicles. I lost. I got down on my stomach in the freezing snow and headed toward the hole which had a diameter of about 15 inches. Everything would have worked had I done the logistics before I entered and realized that my snow jacket plus ME wasn’t going to fit. I was stuck. I was stuck in a makeshift Ice cave with my hind legs pointing north screaming at my son to get a shovel.  Thank God my head could poke out the entrance to be able to view the comforting scene in front of my eyes: My son and Charly bent over in hysterics….”Just you wait till I get my hands on you both……” I yelled in anger.

Maybe by spring after the snow thaws…….

There’s Life in the Old Blog Yet

I haven’t been able to write lately because there is four feet of snow encompassing my home. I can not get out of my garage nor can I barely get out of my front door. That is no excuse not to write albeit my computer is five feet away from me in the study. Charly and I just stare at it. We googled exotic islands with the temperatures reading higher than 16 degrees celsius and drool together. Besides his drool would just freeze in these temps anyway. Everything else has. It is hard to get my puppy to go to the bathroom in freezing temps. I have a wonderful warm quilted coat that velcro’s around his torso while he ventures outside in the wintery bluster. He use to run from me when I would try to adhere this article of clothing around him but now now he begs me for it. He hated the sound the velcro made when I removed it from his sausage body.  It makes the same sound as a novice esthetician in a chop chop salon attacking my legs with warm paraffin. I assured him his fur was intact and this was just a device to keep him warm.  I watched another dog program featured on cable vision and they instructed new  puppy owners to definitely keep their new pups warm. This show was called puppy 101. It taught you all the traits of owning a new puppy. I was glued to the T.V., I knew this was the answer to my puppy prayers. I was flunking out of Cesar Milan’s class because I couldn’t contain my whisper, especially after he baptized the hallway with another excitatory excretion. I do believe every room in our house has been privy to Charly’s  seepage. I really can’t blame him because I wouldn’t want to go out in sub zero temperatures and rest my tiny chi-hua-hua ass on glaciate apertures. I recall once when I was hiking in the Olympic mountains with a few fun friends and having to relieve myself in an area that didn’t harbor latrines. I sat my  then size two tuschie onto a makeshift potty made by the ice princess her self.  My warm ass stuck to the crystal commode and my stream of hot  urine sent smoke signals to the forrest ranger.  There were no walls to protect me or give me the privacy I deserved from the wildlife; I just had to grin and BARE it much like my pup does every time I take  him out to relieve himself. I feel his pain and humiliation. I try to shield his discomfort of having to expose his potty ritual to the entire public by fanning my full length cashmere coat   around him as if I were Batman ready  dive off from the Empire State Building after the Joker. You can’t tell me a dog doesn’t feel embarassed  having to  do something amongst the public that we do in the privacy of our own bathrooms.  It almost makes me want to build a doggie outhouse. Yeah, maybe stock it with a copy of the Wall Street Journal. Let Charly have his privacy moments and bathroom time alone just like we do. I wonder if he’ll replace the toilet paper roll when it’s empty or  be like the rest of the family and leave it for me. My husband put an “easy” button from  Staples in out guest powder room. I guess he thought it would be funny if people saw that red button and would get the joke after having spent a half hour in the toilet trying to eliminate last nights dinner. He taught Charly how to press the “easy ” button with his paw. Now every time Charly has an “accident” in the house  he runs over to the “easy” button and reminds us how easy that was….Now my dog poops on command form Staples latest advertising ploy. Much like Pavlov’s dog; I’ve got Staple’s string along.. Maybe  Ill have Charly accompany me to the cha ching-chain store and waltz him up to  customer service with his new winter quilt wrap and have him drop off his package at the UPS counter…………..

That was easy.

Lucky Blog.

My puppy is going to get neutered this month. Do you think I should tell him ahead of time or let him wake up finding a piece of the anatomy puzzle missing and watch him wildly sniffing the hole in his Kong. They say that it is time and this will curb a lot of his aggression and hostility. Personally I still want to advocate for psychotherapy, maybe a change in diet and exercise routine, and top it off with a puppy prozac. The thought of this upsets me. I know it is for the betterment of….of…..of who? The dog gets castrated and can’t continue a normal healthy appetite for what is suppose to be a natural phenomenon. Instead he donates his balls to a society who claim that this is necessary. A Humane society. Kind of an oxymoron if you ask me. How humane is it to remove genitals from a seven month young pup, that until just now, realized they were hanging there. He likes them. He licks them. He knows they are there. Right now, they complete him. I understand having something like this done if there is a hint of a disease attached. Is this really good for them?  “Get them neutered right away, as early as possible, here is our price list and a summary of  the procedure”. Price: $350 Summary: Cut Balls Off. I am not going to be the one that takes him. I do not want my face to be the last thing he sees before going under the knife and later assimilating me with his new lack of Dog-hood. Oh yeah, Charly will just hop right in the car next time I’m behind the wheel going to the Vet. right. AND, what do they do with all these specimens they surgically remove. Are they put on dry ice for any reversals should there be a change of heart in the next five years and maybe, just maybe, Charly wants to start a family? Is there an age of consent in puppies? Do I have to try to locate the mother for permission? Maybe she’ll demand money from me. What do they do with the tiny marbles they take  from my pup? Do they coldly toss them into organic garden of epididymis?  Are they transplanted onto geriatric dogs? Or God forbid, are those tiny rocks given to the owner to take home and what, place them under Charly’s pillow awaiting the Testes fairy to arrive with a bag of Snausages? Or OMG, maybe I am suppose to have them bronzed and encased in glass next to my son’s soccer trophies. Yeah, there’s one for the Gipper. ( Or should I say two…)!  I think that could cause extreme post operative trauma for my dog to have to view his lost articles on a daily basis.  Maybe they are thrown into an incinerator with all the others and end up in smoke. Puts a little twist on All Dogs going to Heaven. I do know some People that have their gallstones removed and they like to make them into jewelry. Kind of like a badge of courage. Maybe Charly would like a new Ball Bling around his neck. I could make it into a mood bling that will change colors as his testosterone decreases. Hey, maybe that’s the answer to PMS and menopause. Mood Jewelry.

The only jewelry that will elevate my mood had better come in carats with a flawless rating.

Looks Like Somebody Shot Your Blog

Have you ever felt like the world was closing in and you are about to lose everything? Have you ever felt that no one wanted to give you the time of day or look at your application twice? Have you ever had to go to your ex employer and beg for your job back? Have you ever felt despair and loneliness and a recumbent disconnect? I wonder if this has to do with menopause. I wonder if these are the feelings women get while having their anatomy slowly turn retrograde. I never use to give age a thought. I always felt age was a number the populace used to gage your life. I never took umbrage in the chronological ascendance of time passing. Until now. I don’t think I like it much. I understand how a person still feels, acts, and looks junior to their assigned age as long as it’s warranted. What I don’t like contending with is the way other people look at someone’s number. Particularly people in the work force or higher education system. How can someone judge you by a birth date without having met you. How can an institution assess your abilities and capabilities without meeting you. How can someone’s future rest on a document designed to categorize you and subject you to their standards without even meeting you? How? Do these organizations not know that 50 is the new 30? Do these companies not see that we are outliving our grandparents by a land slide. We have found the fountain of youth ( restveritrol), exercised our hearts to a new beat,  out think most new grads, and are capable of keeping the squeaky wheel well oiled without the help of WD-40…..

I look to the future, I enjoy everything that encompasses a brave new world, I love my next generation. I do not want to sit back in retirement at 50 watching my hormones moan louder than my dog. I think there are a lot of people in my age group that have a lot to offer this world and have been contributing over decades to make this globe spin nicely. I think Institutions need to take a long gander at people and who they are, maybe really get to know them and not be afraid of someone who is 50. Maybe take a long look into their soul during an interview instead of a short glimpse at their resume. I think companies need to know that we are not dead and useless at 50 and that our experiences play a pertinent role in a job performance. Hiring new grads for cheap is like buying $50 puppy from a trailer park. Lot’s of training involved and lot’s of cleaning up accidents, only to have them run away the first time you take them off a leash. Yeah, If I were an institution I would not put a big red check mark on an application that illustrates a person with Hutzpa and character lines.  I wouldn’t put the new generation of healthy -not ready- for- retirement,  who will work without calling out sick on Mondays from too much partying over the weekend because they have been there done that in their post college years; out to pasture or in the dog pound. I wouldn’t shrug off hiring a senior recruit because you feel they can’t keep up with technology, who do you think invented it? I would not push aside an elder candidate like an old dog with a bad leg. Maybe it’s time we gather our pack and bared our dentures to the workforce and fight back what is rightfully ours to begin with. We started it and paved the way for the “new pups” to join in. Maybe we need to fight like a junk yard dog and take the companies out for a long walk and some training. Yeah, we can throw out the walkers with the handicap bumper stickers that everyone under 30 thinks we need. They think because we age we whither and  degenerate. Nope not all, not me, I’m as firm as my puppy’s petrified poop on the front lawn. Next time you feel the sky is falling and the ozone is closing in and no one want’s you but your dog, just glare out into space and the first Institutional CEO that walks by…………….sic em’!

OR phone your physician for a refill of estrogen……………….

A Barking Blog Never Bites

How in the world does one get a seven month old puppy to stop eating and chewing everything on the planet? I realize that most things Charly-dog chews are passible, but this morning I was met with a most unpleasant situation. A nasty situation involving the hole at the end of his hiney. Maybe I need to contact Wolf Blizter in the situation room. I took my dog out this morning for his usual morning urine dispensing and when we returned to the house he started to scoot on his tuschie like he was wiping himself off. I didn’t like it much, that he was using my white Ethan Allen throw rug for toilet paper. He ferried over to the kitchen carpet by the sink and replicated the same action. My husband panicked about the possibilities of fecal material being deposited on the rug. I panicked because my doggie dictionary says that’s a sign of worms. I hoisted his tail above half mast to take a gander at the entry to the brown lagoon, and I noticed what looked like a white stiff hair protruding out from his tiny anus. While I held the pup down I asked my husband to help me retrieve this irritant from the dog. I told my husband to grab the hair out of his ass, but when I turned around he was missing. My husband not the dog. He later returned wearing a Hazmet suit and holding a moist tissue.  I examined the item coming out of my puppy’s butt-hole and it wasn’t a hair at all, it was a thin plastic tag that is used to adhere price tags on to articles of clothing. As I pulled the half inch end my puppy glared at me. He had to have ingested this thing yesterday while helping me excavate my coed daughters room. I tried to retrieve this item as delicately  as I could in order not to tear anything of importance that might result in a very costly Vet visit. This wasn’t working. Charly would not lie still. So I resorted to an antic that my mother use to use when we were kids and had to have a two day old band aide removed from our “not being allowed to shave our legs yet” shin. You YANK quickly. I pulled this tag rapidly before Charly had time to look at me and I felt the end get stuck. God only knows what was on the end of that line. I gave it one more try, but this time closed my eyes and pulled. A vibrant Yelp came out of us both and when I opened my eyes to see the result, well, I should have kept them closed. I will not describe what was on the end of this, but I do know that my daughter paid full price for her sweater….

I have lectured my family on the importance of not leaving anything lying around the house that is smaller than a chest of drawers. I am tired of fishing everything out of my pup’s orafices especially when it is held between clenched ………canines. I have tried the usual one word commands to get Charly to release his death grip. There are many directives to choose from the Waggers Word Bank, like “drop”, “release”,”let go”, and  my favorite: “If you don’t relinquish that slipper in five seconds you’re trailer park history”…. We opted for the term “Leave”. We have neighbors from England who have raised two beautiful well mannered Pedigree English Shepherd’s who can fetch tea bags at three in the afternoon. They adopted the term LEAVE for their dog’s and it works. One afternoon around pre-cocktail hour I noticed the owner of these dog’s sitting and watching TV while nursing his Guinness. He quietly strolled over to the dogs with a dog biscuit broken in half and placed each piece on the for-paw of the dog.  As he left the cookie there he gave a consecutive command of” leeeeave” and walked back to the couch to resume his beer. I was astounded that the dog’s did not touch that milk bone nor did they even dare peek at it. The self control was amazing. I was so captivated by the mastering of these canines yet I also felt a twinge of pity for them not being able to taste the temptation displayed on their furry feet. I watched as the owner made them wait a minute, which felt like hours to me. I wanted to intervene and give those pets their doggie delight. I could sense the saliva trickling down their jowls in anticipation as they waited for the command to ” go ahead then”. Those dog’s kept their head erect staring at the TV not one degree did they look south at their treat teetering on their paw. I was torn between being impressed and wanting to do the same with the owner and his beer. Maybe place it on his Gucci loafers in front of him and repeating the term”:

“Leave, leave, leeeave….good boy.  Go  ahead then…bottom’s up!”

Charly likes the word leave , it sounds like leaf which he likes to ingest on his daily walks. I’m sure he has Sherwood Forrest trapped in his Intestines waiting for Maid Marion and Robin Hood in his Haz-met  tights to retrieve.  Well then, Go A head, Bottoms up!