Charlywalker's Blog












My doggie is a year now, and  I never thought it would happen; time flies when you’re under doggie duress. I haven’t blogged for while because I’ve been bogged down with responsibility sans any breathing room. Plus I’m low on wine. I like to sit at the Macbook and type away like a Pro while cherishing a lovely bouquet of  Food & Wine’s best seller. Life is not complete if a Bordeaux has not stained my keyboard, much like my puppy has done to the family room carpet.

 Charly’s bladder has matured now, unlike mine which decided to run on its own time clock, and his “mishaps’ are not as frequent as they were in his younger years, unlike mine,  which appear at the most in -opportune times.

 There’s something about menopause and bladder retention or incontinence that go hand in hand. For example, after working out at the gym and swallowing a bottle of water in under  ten minutes, I use to be able to hold it for hours. Like a Camel. But now for some reason the message from my bladder to my brain gets lost in translation and the urgency to void can’t be avoided.

There is a minor solution to this; Alcohol. Alcohol dehydrates the body, ergo all fluids remain  embellished in tissues and cells and take their time to find an escape route. (Unless, you’ve been perched on a bar stool for three hours enjoying great Company, Cuisine, and  Cosmos). Your bladder has been boxed in and the fluids are floating at high tide looking for an exit that has been smushed into a cushioned seat; Sooo the moment you stand an alarm goes off in your system that screams:

“Find a toilet, Danger, Danger….urine will commence in five…….four……three……”.

Faster than a dog can lick a dish of left over steak you rush to the ladies room. Unless you’re amongst some of the less fortunate drunks who end up in the planter outside the entrance or possibly planned ahead,  and wore their depends.

I love what life dishes out on a paper plate. The process of aging is the icing on the cake left in the dumpster outside Giovanni’s Italian restaurant.  It doesn’t get better, it gets different. Better is the prime of your life without worry and cares. It is the youth inside screaming to be released. Getting older is your mind starting foreclosure on your body with your Libido requesting an extension.

 I don’t think my dog knows that he is a year older, I don’t think he cares. I have noticed a few changes of life in him that entail a calmer notion in behavior and in understanding my gibberish commands better. I only have to say “come” three times now instead of just closing the back  sliding door and  watching him stare at me with watery eyes through the glass in wonderment if I really will leave him out in the 93 degree heat.

 I would say that Dogs definitely get better with age. I think Charly-dog knows that his life expectancy is shorter than his owner.  And he knows how to deal with the aging process much better than I do. Well at least I think he does. He certainly gives the impression that he has a handle on it.

O.K…O.K….. I did see him adding a nip of  a Dogfish Bitches Brew to his Science Chow……Ain’t aging a bitch….but the cure comes in a vintage form.



{June 6, 2010}   Call off the Blogs

Whose correct here. Who is the master behind all the dog trivia and guidelines. Who?

I sought the advice of professionals and had my dog neutered. I listened to the  hounding of many EDO’s and Vet’s and Vet Technicians and friends and families, and dog owning neighbors with the regards to getting your  pet fixed.

I did extensive Google-ing  on this subject until my search engines could no longer Bada-BING, and with all this information circling my brain I came up with one testimony that was consistent with everyone:

” This will calm your dog down and make him less aggressive”.

BULL-testicles!. My dog was calming down just nicely two weeks prior to his operation which nearly made me cancel the appointment. In fact, I think Charly-dog had an inkling of what his future held and he was more obedient than a beaten red-headed orphan. But now, now we are two weeks post-op and you would think he was constantly being stunned by a cattle prod.

Everything I trained him in for the last ten months has completely left his Bobble-pea brain and he has regressed back to the day I lifted him out of that stained Graco playpen fighting for his life with three other siblings in a smoke filled trailer. He is snapping and growling and biting his leash, he is running in circles around the house jumping on furniture he never knew existed before.

Charly has started a new habit of digging and pawing, and hiding disgusting overpriced dental chews under the draperies. This is not the pup I left muzzled and unconscious on a chilly  stainless steel counter  just weeks ago in the hands of a certified Vet.

I wonder if he got switched at the In-humane society with another look alike Chaniel? It could happen, there were other black and white pups with black fabric gluing their snoots quiet. Thank God I used a florescent magic marker  on his belly to draw a neon arrow pointing to the correct  operable region.

These things can happen,  I have heard of stories of babies switched at birth, and operating room surgeons removing the wrong limb, maybe my puppy didn’t get neutered and still hides his cojones in his back pocket.

Maybe this organization just collected my $75 and had me watch him go under the gas and then retreated to  a dunkin do-nuts break while my dog lays in a Curariform coma.

Maybe I didn’t notice  a difference in his balls because they could have shrunk from resting on the cold steel table. All I can say is that Charly is still showing signs of aggression and I expected him to cut that out when they cut his dogly-hood.

I am a type A personality who expects things to happen immediately and not over any length of time. Why, when they cut my female apparatus out and did not furnish me with replacement therapy, I didn’t start biting at the leash when I went out for walks, or growling and barking at people and chasing after White Escolades, or sitting endlessly in a corner licking my wounds. NO, I handled it with all the grace and dignity that I could muster and merely reached for a bottle of Grey Goose…..

That’s the answer! I am going to get my dog wasted on Stoli’s until his hormone levels drop to a desired norm and room temperature. I wonder if he wants it straight or on the rocks. Or maybe blended with his Frosty-Pup.

There is one thing that needs to be addressed and that is his Chaniel barking. I thought that de-testicle-ing him would curb that barking enthusiasm, but it has not. No it has not. NOT ONE BIT. Maybe Charly and I need to take a time out from our hormone crash and sit out back with a pitcher of Martini’s and just gaze up at the Heaven’s and stir up the Cosmos until one of us has a Splashdown……….

spread the humor




Can anyone  claim that they are truly happy, and what is  involved in being truly happy?  Is it when you have an incredible belly laugh over something your dog did? Or maybe a family anecdote escaped  from a loved one and caused you to chuckle?

I love to laugh, I think laughter is the best thing God put on this earth yet I haven’t have a good laugh in years.  I’m talking about a “holding your gut” type of laughter or a possible “pea my pants” hysteria. I haven’t had a belly buster since I was in the hospital dressing my baby for our discharge and my three day old infant let out a fart that summoned the nurse into the room asking if we rang the “call” button..

I could be in a complete hormonal crash mode and my puppy will do everything possible to make me smile. My family is not cognizant of my dips in the estrogen scale, but my dog seems to be in sync with my cycles. Or lack of them. How is that?

My dog seems to know if I am ready for battle or ready to break down. My dog knows when to clear out of the way of my hormonal war zone or when to retreat to fetal position on my lap. Why is it my puppy knows more about my intrinsic whereabouts than I do?

  I have a battle going on within my body that  General  Grant himself could not stop. I have hormones screaming for freedom and radical change that the N.O.W.  would hold  as a P.O.W. if my Uterus wasn’t M.I.A. I have a constant struggle for autonomy encompassing my body that could have only been felt by Rosa Parks herself while demanding the front seat of that Greyhound.

I feel that my body has left me for another and I am summoned to co exist with  synthetic replacements.  I think menopause has left me stranded at the train station awaiting the midnight train to nowhere. I think I am left with a one way ticket to Hormonal Hell and the only way back is to dig deep into my Coach pocket book for a sedative or a 2008 Santa Barbara Chardonnay.

You can not tell me that there are not other women experiencing the same things I do with regards to the bodily changes after 50 or 40 or in some very rare cases 39. How can you tell if a person is really happy ? There are many people who pretend to be and carry their emotions on their designer sleeve all the while walking erect, eyes forward, and possibly struggling with demons within. I guess we’ll never know until they become headline news.

I believe laughter is the best medicine, but don’t let the AMA in on this  little secret or many Medical Men might go out of business and abolish that Happy Pill.  That pill that transforms perfectly normal people into Dawn of the Dead. That pill that takes someone from a vibrant sprinter to a lethargic shuffler. That pill that can neutralize womankind to a state of accepted behavior. I need one of those pills right now. Not for me, for my post neutered puppy.

I thought having him de-testicled would  make him calmer and less aggressive , but  lately he has been overtly spunky and has completely regressed to his infantile behavior. There must be some kind of lead line from his balls to his brain. Some kind of disconnect has resulted from his severed Dog- hood. Take away a puppy’s family jewels and you are left with an empty baguette. Charly-dog must be frustrated and confused and possibly not happy. Oh,  I see him periodically wagging is tail but I think he is just fanning his farts in my direction.

 I do witness him gnawing on his Faux filled bone with his eyes rolling to the back of his bobble head as he seems to enjoy gnashing his canines on the calcified cartilage. I have watched him tear into that thing for twenty minutes with out taking a breath totally engrossed in engraving his teeth marks into the cortex. Personally I think he is etching his initials into it to label his toys. My puppy is so bewitched by this bone that he has dragged  it through four rooms of the house in under twenty minutes. He is so content and happy with his treasure that I’m wondering if I should get myself a bone to pick on.

I may have to  improvise and find something in a soft chew as to not destroy the hundreds of dollars worth of caps & crowns imbedded in my mouth. I could just see me trying to explain to the Dentist why all my teeth are chipped and broken and sharpened into points. No I think I’ll leave that behavior for my puppy, he holds the secret to chewing on something until it disintegrates and it makes him happy.

I hold the key to the liquor cabinet and that makes me happy………………………………………………………………….



{May 7, 2010}   Gone to the Blogs

I have finally reached rock bottom. My espresso machine broke and I am forced to drink Drip coffee. I can not function without my first cappuccino of the morning, I live and breath to arise to that foamy steamed milk laced with the most vile Peruvian coffee that Juan Valdez would never let his mule sniff. This gets me more excited than my puppy ripping through his cows ear covered with Jack Daniel’s barbeque sauce.

I love my cappuccino almost as much as I love my dog and  without my morning ritual I become as bitter as the taste of my cup of Joe.  I hate the fact that due to the physicality  affect my cappuccino holds on me, I have been forced to dole out a few bucks at the local Espresso stand. I don’t know which is worse, the lousy drip institutional tasting coffee or forking over hard earned dollars for overpriced fancy hot drinks.

 I think it all boils down to my being angry at my trustworthy machine  for losing it’s parts. I have had this machine for ten years and it had proven to be as faithful as my dog. I find I can not write without caffeine, oh I tried those Teen enhancer’s like Monster and AMP, they tasted like diluted cough medicine with an Alka-Seltzer chaser.  Plus I don’t like having to belch after every sip. Some beverages are designed for youth under 25 years of age. If I want bubbles bursting in my nose it better be bottled by the French and have the phrase Cuvee Paradis written on the label.

However, this is not a morning eye opener , well maybe for some people who may use it as an additive in their OJ;  but for me I love my capuccino. The aroma, the taste, the rush of that addictive mocha mud jump starting my circulatory system. The only sensation that can mimic that excitement is my Puppy pouncing on me at six a.m. The only missing link is the lack of a fresh brewed smell in his fur, maybe I’ll have to invest in espresso shampoo.

I have to say my doggie is getting calmer and behaving better and I am sure that is due to his budding maturity or my starting to calm down and not hyperventilate every time I take him out. maybe it’s the recent lack of adequate caffeine. When Charly and I head out on an expedition I completely transpose my body in to a KamaSutra state of mind and try to stay in that state until we return to our natural habitat. The House.

I think I am spending too many hours watching the Dog Whisperer, but I do like his incredible lightness of being around his pack. I don’t have a pack. I have a back pack. Maybe I could stuff Charly in there while we take walks around the neighborhood. I wish I could attribute my new found serenity to watching Master Milan and his Miracle Mutts, but my disposition is more of a null and void space and a zombie like appearance. I get up in the morning wearing whatever fell out of my drawer from the night before and shuffle down the hallway with one eye open toward my sleeping Dog for his morning walk. I try to get out there either before the rush hour of commuters or just after, so no one should bear witness to my clown like attire and report me to the home owners association as a possible asylum escapee.

My morning walks with my pup have been very sedate lately because my body is moving slowly to the rhythm of “absence of stimuli”. My capuccino machine broke and I can not function without it, it completes me. It gets my body parts to operate as they are designed to unlike my machine which can’t operate if a part breaks down and you have to wait three to four weeks for delivery. AND when the part finally arrives the Fed Ex driver won’t come to the house because of the barking Chaniel pup, so he leaves it by the mailbox; which then got picked up and ferried by another dog in the hood to some sacred burial spot.

I’m telling you this is gunna be rrr-ruff……….I’m falling apart.

spread the humor



{April 6, 2010}   Sad as a Hound Blogs Eye

I had a visit today with the Established Vet to get my dogs nails done and to have one of the last shots that will enable him to walk amongst every other dog. That is, if he were social enough to walk with other dogs and people for that matter.  Charly-dog had to have a muzzle put on for the first time by the Vet Technician, who I noticed, had shaky hands even before we entered the office.

My dog was a little more maintained  today and only allotted himself a minute of barking per person. The Vet Technician (VT) explained that:

“Dogs do that when they have experienced trauma either in the home or out ;or heard a loud noise when you’re not home”.

 Hearing the word Trauma gave me an upset feeling in my stomach and made me hold my head  down in shame racking my brain to try to figure out when and if trauma happened in our house. There’s Drama, which rhymes with trauma, but that’s because I house teenagers.

 The only trauma/drama I can think of was when my mother- in- law last visited; but Charly was barely past infancy and I’m sure he has blocked that Holiday from his bobble head.  The only trauma this dog has experienced is scoping neighbors passing our property peacefully walking their dogs and he finds himself unable crash through the house like the Kool-Aid pitcher barking “Oh Yeah” and nabbing onto a pant cuff. 

I have  been spending a lot of time watching dog shows to the point of now being the most confused I have ever been since bringing this puppy home.  I have taken Charly-dog places, let him witness other dogs in the hood, and have had guest over all in the vain of getting my dog to a level where I can breath easy in public and stop apologizing to every person we come in contact with.

 I actually gave up today on the notion of owning a dog. When I was at the Vet waiting for my dogs toenails to shine, I found myself in a ready position to exit quickly.  My checkbook had a pre-written check with the amount due blank. When the Vet Technician delivered my dog to me shaking and suffering from muzzle shock, I  tore my check out of the checkbook and ran for the exit.

 There were many pets that entered during my puppy’s visit and Charly did not have  a nice thing to say to any of them. All I could sense around me were the glares from the dog owners in the waiting room making me feel as though I must have traumatized this dog somehow without knowledge.  It was the same feeling I got when my son was two and wouldn’t follow instructions from the pre-pre- school teacher and decided to take all his clothes off during play time and sunbathe  on the playground as if he had a VIP card to a nudist colony in Maui. The stares and whispers from the other mothers was just invigorating.

 I tried to remain as calm as the Dog Whisperer and keep my head up high and use my “inside voice” to correct Charly’s outbursts, but I yanked his collar until his bark was a spattered choke and exited in silence. I put Charly  in the back seat and tethered him to the seat belt that would not allow him within a two foot radius near me. I was seething as I drove him back home  and watched as he poked his bobble head out the back window in silence to absorb the ongoing oxygen. I did not want to acknowledge his presence in my car. I did not want to talk to him or look at him. I had horrific thoughts of his escaping through the window at a stop light and me not stopping to get him.

I drove in silence for twenty minutes as Charly RODE in silence.  I pulled  into my drive and stopped the car and told Charly to get out. I took off his leash and pointed to the vast unknown acreage and yelled at him to get out and leave me alone. At that point I didn’t care if he took off running after a car, or ran after someone screaming his barks in protest. All I wanted to do was retreat to my back yard and tend to my garden amongst my quiet Azalea’s.  

I left Charly unaccompanied and on his own in the back yard with out a tethered leash or a fence. I gave him Carte Blanche of the yard without supervision. I went to my garden and took a shovel and dug up last seasons weeds as if I were plotting his grave. I looked up into the sky and watched two vultures circle my area staring down licking their chops in anticipation of grabbing my Chaniel for lunch. I looked up at the predators and glanced back at my puppy perched on the steps watching me. I kept digging and tilling the ground without thought to anything except the possibility of having a peaceful life back and to not  turn around if I hear the yelp of my dog as he’s carried off by the treacherous talons of  these birds of prey. In that moment of  fantasy I saw my dog being carried off into the sunset and my having to explain to my weeping family as to what happened and why is there so much dog fur on the patio.

Instead, I was the one reduced to tears. I stood there wearing  oversized gardener’s gloves on my hands looking like Minnie Mouse  and crying over disheveled dirt infested with winter worms. I sat in the middle of my garden cultivating my thoughts in hopes of a revelation to inspire me to not offer my pup as a sacrifice to the vulture gods and as I sat there I noticed Charly approach me with a languish grin of satisfaction……….and a few feathers following behind him as he brought  me an olive branch that looked like a beak.

I am in dog hell and he has total control. I think I am in need of sticking my bleached head out the window for air……………Muzzle Tov!

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Ain’t marriage grand? Don’t you just love the long silent pauses and passing each other by the bathroom like two ships in the night with only one fog horn that is actively tooting.Isn’t is amazing how twenty years can sneak by faster than gas escaping my husbands ass during an afternoon nap.  Much like I have been experiencing with my new puppy.

Charly-dog and my husband have many similarities that they don’t even know exist. They both run around on weekends  unshaven with their bed heads disheveled yawning as they transport their bodies from the couch to the floor.

 Their table manners are lax in the department  of keeping their compartments closed while they chew and finishing their meal by licking their bowls in unison.

 I have witnessed the two loitering around the stove while dinner is being prepared begging for a tasty preview.  The only difference lately that I have recorded is that I get jumped on more by my Dog…..

My parents were married for ever, and I asked my mother: “Why?”….why stay married for fifty years. What’s the point. The kids are grown and gone and maybe the things you thought you had in common aren’t  there anymore. Maybe two people have grown apart and have different desires and dreams then they did fifty years ago when they  first met. Why stay together if you are not truly elated and passionate about each other any more. I asked my then 70 year old mother these questions and her reply was:

“You marry for companionship. The companionship follows you into old age  ’til death do you part”.

Companionship? Get a dog. There is less barking and minor messes to contend with. Dogs curl up at your feet and can keep you warm and protected during the night without the snoring. They don’t have any excess baggage of extended family members. I can’t imagine one of Charly-dogs siblings phoning us for money or, God forbid, his mother calling daily to complain about the shiksa Shih Tzu he married.Dog’s make great companions, they smother you with  unconditional love even when they are faced with a rolled up newspaper above their nose.

 My husband has always traveled a lot and most of that time  for me was filled  with raising  children, I never stopped to take a breather, I just kept following the lead line.

 There can be a lot of things that get misplaced in a marriage besides your keys. For instance ,those times in your relationship where the initial spark lasted longer than  a brisk kiss goodbye out the door. Those times when a dinner and a movie meant actually getting out of the family room for a night.

Relationships fall into the hands of both parties involved and each is responsible for their part. It takes two to Tango…unless your mate doesn’t like to dance.  Charly-dog likes to dance. He waltzed over to me once in the kitchen poised on his hind legs mimicking a Cha-Cha as I attempted to tackle  a Chicken Marsala. I grabbed his front paws and we swayed to they songs of Michael Buble blasting from the Bose speaker. I picked him up into my arms and extended his paw toward that Tango path of a hallway allowing him to take the lead. Charly has the perfect emotion for that dance; he harbors a perennial grin as he exploits the pencil  in his teeth that he stole from my book bag.

Yes I think Dogs could replace  husbands in certain categories, now if Charly could just get out there and earn a buck I’d have it made in the shade. Maybe I’ll send him for some Salsa Lessons at Juilliard. Maybe I’ll just send him out for Hot Salsa & Chips to go along with my Hot flashes..

spread the humor.




My husband has been in Italy for the last month traveling about to various cities and waking up with a mint on his pillow and a do not disturb sign dangling from his hotel room door. He asked me if there was anything that I would like for him to bring back to me. I told him to bring the do not disturb sign.

While he has been working in the fields  under the Tuscan Sun soaking up the Chianti that was meant for me, I have been knee deep  trekking through a winter blizzard catering to children and a dog and shoveling a 20 yard drive way. I have come to the conclusion that I absolutely hate snow. I think snow should stay atop the mountains where it feels most at home and at peace instead of my street where eventually it ends a mixture of slush and gravel on the side of the road.

My dog is starting to hate the snow. It is no longer a novice for him where he romps and chases snowflakes. Now it is a chore and he will fight to the end to Not go out in the cold. Charly and I are having wrestling matches and he waits until I pin him to get his leash on. He actually retreats to his doggie bed and curls up in fetal position in rebellion. I don’t blame him, I don’t want to go out  into the white chasm that chills every hair on our heads.

 I have found one saving grace though, something that helps with the winter nights and warms the cockles. Whatever cockles are. I think Charly is losing his cockles soon. I have turned to brandishing wine. Wasn’t this the survival mechanism of the early explorers. Didn’t that trusty St. Bernard carry that lovely Keg of    Laphroaig Scotch twenty miles into the Rockies around his thick neck? I wonder if I could train Charly-dog to carry a stash for me when I’m out doing his nightly poo-poo walk. The walk that takes hours because he is so busy sniffing atop three feet of snow in order to locate his last leakage. The last potty stand that got buried under a glacier a week ago and is untraceable even to the most sensitive snoz.

If he could carry a flask of Grey goose around his puny neck accompanied by a saddle of green olives  I could walk him all night in a snow storm.  Work a plate of  appetizers on his back and I have a traveling bar at my disposal. Maybe I could train him to retrieve an Andes Creme de Menthe and place it on my pillow with the dent in the middle.

My dog is no bigger than a bottle of scotch so maybe I’ll have to attach a few airline miniatures behind his ears.  I have a few left over from when I grabbed a flight or two. Those days when I was free floating and had absolutely no responsibility , well, those were the days.  I was a flight attendant at one time. A time when flying was fun and you actually got a meal.  A time when you were thirty thousand feet above everyone else and  miniatures came in a caseload and not in a Bichon Frise packed in some ones Louis Vitton.

I see nothing wrong with a nip or two especially during the chilly nights or when your hormones are bouncing higher than Michael Jordan’s slam dunks. It can get lonely when your husband is away for a long time, but the company of a dog toting a flask of Martini’s could sublimate any longing that may  have entered your heart. There are a few things that can replace the warmth missing from the other side of the bed: A dry martini and a warm puppy. I believe that sums it up in a Dog shell.

Now, If he could accomplish the art of Shiatsu my husband need not return…………………




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.




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.



{February 18, 2010}   Top Blog

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!



et cetera
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