Charlywalker's Blog











{February 15, 2010}   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.




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…….




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.



{February 2, 2010}   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.




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……………….



{February 1, 2010}   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!



{January 22, 2010}   A Blog’s Breakfast

What in the world is in Dog food? What ingredient do they add that makes a six month old puppy’s farts smell as if something has been lying dead in a vat of sulfur.  I can hardly write because my eyes are tearing up. My dog is lying next to me on a blanket surrounded in a faint cloud of smoke from the gas that is escaping through his tiny puppy portal. We are sitting by the fire place which I am afraid to ignite given the hazardous conditions of my dog’s intestines.

I give my pup a special dog food that has the heading of Science. I was instructed by EDO’s to get a good brand of food to “help his coat” and “maintain a healthy diet” and “he will not have stinky poop”. No, just aromatic farts. Amaroidal.

I tried to find out what this dog food contained but there were no “specifics” on the bag. It just said Special Blend. I saw some bags that had the names of farm animals on them like chicken and lamb. But this was a special blend. Special. The word Special is very precarious. Often used as an adjective. Like Special Ed. Special refers to something that is different, peculiar, limited….Red Lettered. Much like the color of the title of the bag of dog food I bought. I plucked a pellet of this special blend and brought it to my nose. This pebble had the scent of something that was at least three days old and hadn’t been refrigerated in weeks.

I’m a smeller. My eyesight is lagging, my hearing is weak, but my snoz tells all. When I shop for food I will pick items up and smell them for their freshness. I can smell if Tylenol has expired. I think I was a bloodhound in my former life. One time when I was shopping at a store in Seattle I encountered an ample assortment of cheese. Cheese from all over the world. Cheese in all sizes and shapes and fragrance. I love cheese. I must have spent an hour picking up various blends of cheeses and holding it to my face to take a whiff.

 When I have come across a delightful cheese in my past I could never remember the brand or name, but I could remember the taste. And if I couldn’t sample the cheese I could remember the smell. (Well who can forget Stilton.) After I finished in this grocery I looked up and saw  that a large man had been watching me the entire time sniffing a sharp Cheddar.  I told him I was not shoplifting and to call off the security.

He smiled and commented on; “How he had never seen anyone smell cheese before”.

 I said: “I know and they all stink”.

Then we continued our tete-a-tete in the check out line.

I know you are expecting this to end with my telling you “this was how I met my husband kind of scene”, but no, this was a very large infamous sports announcer on a local channel buying dog food….. and he had an odor much like the aged cheese bin.  This guy , I had heard later, was involved with a large drug ring that resulted in a few incarcerations at Club Fed. I knew something smelled about him other than his cheap cologne.  Maybe that’s the answer to my dog’s digestive woes. He needs puppy perfume. Chaniel  No.5 or Pet-scada or Canine klein or Dog Dew…….Brut.

Needless to say none of these perfumes would hide the unhealthy bouquet radiating from within my puppy’s system.  I may have to phone the Science food people to actually find out what the make up of their kibble – n-bit is. I’m sure every thing meets with the FDA ( food & dog association) standards but they really need to work on that smell.

I’d hate to have to write them a Scarlett letter.

spread the humor.



{January 22, 2010}   Blog in the Manger

My puppy has a fetish. He loves the laundry. He particularly loves to grab a sock. Any sock will do. He will spend hours playing with an old Hanes or a Gold Toe. He steals them out of the basket when I’m not looking and when he feels daring he jumps half way into the dryer and actually surveys the clothing. Most the time I just let him take one sock, usually my sons. They are the largest. Unfortunately, Charly will not relinquish his home made toy and devours the sucker until it has more holes in it than Swiss cheese. Ergo we are a one- sock- footed family with lots of mismatches.  We all decided to take the Holy socks and wad them into a ball. We keep adding new merchandise to the initially rolled “sockie”  much like  a rubber band ball. Only with stockings.  I decided to keep an unwashed one in the center to hold his attention a little longer.  You can always tell when a pup has something they are not suppose to have by the way they slink around corners like a spy at the airport. One day at the Whirlpool Charly confiscated an intimate article of clothing that belonged to my daughter. He ran down the hallway and out of sight with his new treasure with me calling after him. Leave! Drop! I cornered him in an adjacent room with his tuschie facing me and he turned his head to the side and dangling from his mouth was a Victoria Secret Thong. I didn’t even have to make a move in any direction because Charly bolted past me and went from room to room frolicking with his new foundations. ( you can find that antiquated definition under Bra History).  I gave him the chase routine for ten minutes, then I gave up and grabbed my camera. I watched him play with this pink thing for over an hour. At one point he was on his back clenching the triangle part in his teeth and stretching the elastic waistband (?) with his legs as if he were using an exercise resistant tubing.  I think he had it on low resistance to tone his flabby under-paws. Then he kicked it up to high speed and got his appendages tangled and looked like a bug caught in a spider’s web. When he jumped up on all fours he was carrying his front elbow in a sling and limping into the kitchen like he just got shot by a stray bullet. I tried to compose myself to retrieve the undergarment but there was no letting up from Charly’s jaws so I just kept snapping pictures and laughing. No, I was not laughing at the misfortune of my puppy’s tangle web he wove, I was laughing because I sent a text to my daughter at college with an attachment of the puppy and his trophy.  She was so delighted she text back a stream of Hahahaha’s. I text her that I posted it on her Facebook.

Funny, she hasn’t text back……….



{January 21, 2010}   Blog’s Best Friend

I have decided to give up. If someone out there would like to talk me out of it feel free. I’m tired. I’m tired of trying to better my life financially and getting kicked in the head while doing it. I think I’ll just move to Italy with my dog and we can both sit and stare endlessly at the beautiful scenery. I will be sipping a lovely Chianti from an unknown region and he will be gnawing on left over Oso-Buco.  I will be alone with my dog  under the Tuscan sun. Many women my age have repeatedly mentioned that they are afraid to be alone. They are afraid that they will lose their loved one and be left out in the cold. Alone. Not if you have a dog. A dog can replace anybody. They don’t sass you and criticize the dinner menu. They don’t slam doors in your face or leave their room in a state of  havoc.  They don’t wine about their acne after you have spent countless dollars on a Pro active solution.  They don’t lose their car keys or misplace their wallet. They don’t have college friends over on a school night  until three in the morning eating potato chips and slurping sodas. They don’t throw the soda cans into the regular garbage instead of the recycle. They just jump into the garbage and retrieve.

I think dog’s are irreplaceable , husbands can be replaced or become extinct. I didn’t realize that becoming the matriarch of the family I took on total responsibily for everything.  I am suppose to be the gatekeeper, chauffeur, laundry lady, accountant, mediator, house cleaner, ATM, cook (?) and the World’s problem solver. Oh, and dream interpreter.  I have days where I want to bask in the silence of the house filled with endless sighs from my puppy. Even Charly’s had enough. Although sometimes too much quiet is not a good thing. My husband has been traveling for the last two weeks and I have been raising doggie solo. I did take for granted the fact that my husband was the early riser and did the six a.m. poop patrol. He also manages to rouse my teenage zombie from his bed and get him off to school and make me a heaping cappuccino at the same time. I stand corrected. Husbands are a necessity, but can still be replaced by a live in maid. Now that I am solo for the last couple of weeks I do miss the help ,which at times I found intrusive. The children are gone all day and it’s me and Charly alone in 4400 square feet of emptiness. I found myself talking to him more and more. I forgo the one word commands and actually hold lengthy conversations with him. He’s a great listener. He should be, his ears are big enough. The one thing that has me concerned is the fact that I seem to be constantly mumbling to Charly. I disclose lot’s of information to him because I know it won’t go any farther. I move about from room to room picking up leftovers from my children’s daily pandemonium and in doing so I ramble on to my dog with my chief complaints. I think he hears so much from me that one day I actually thought I saw a speech balloon pop up from his bobble head with a sarcastic retort.

I guess being alone is the abyss. I understand why some people end up shuffling down to the mailbox in their New & Lingwood regal Red slippers muttering stock quotes. It could be worse: Muttering to a mutt in your five inch Marabou’s while he explores an acre to mark his spot.   It’s O.K. They have a Peep-Toe…



{January 7, 2010}   Blog Help Me

I consider myself a spiritual person. I was brought up in an Irish Catholic home. My father was born on St. Patrick’s Day, attended Notre dame College and Notre Dame Law school. My parents were married at the Grotto on the Notre Dame campus. My cousin is the head priest at a prominent Cathedral in Seattle, his sister a nun, an uncle a Monsignor, and the piece de resistance,  some distant relative is a Bishop. Our board is so loaded I think we have enough players to construct a narrow-minded Chess game. Checkmate. I believe in God. But I think there is a deity in disguise. My Dog. If you notice ,dog is God spelled backwards. After all dog’s are considered man’s best friend, they risk their lives for us, ( what, canine units?)  they have comforted our souls, they are capable of the miracle of birth, and all dogs go to Heaven. I have yet to witness them walking on water but they do have a mean doggie paddle. The Dog’s name is used in vain in a few manners; Dog gone it! Dog blast it! Hot Diggity Dog. To err is human to forgive is Canine. I think my puppy is close to the divinity. He has the power to forgive unconditionally, he listens to your confessions without rebuttal, and he is constantly looking upward like the Penitent Dog… Charly runs to my side every time he hears me utter the words, OhGod help me. This is not in prayer form. This is in castigation whenever I grab the floor cleaner chasing a potty mishap.  This has now become a standard thwarted command of some sort and makes him believe that he is a religious figure. His body language becomes his platform for the almighty or some ones Idol. He likes to lie next to me with his front paws extended and bobble head erect carrying his Cleopatra ears like a Sphinx guarding the Pyramid of Cheops. Licking his chops. Sometimes he jumps up in anticipation  to grab a mighty morsel  that misses the garbage as the plate is schlepped from the dinner table. He has actually maintained a bi-ped posture for about five seconds without any crutches to lean on. Charly looks like a little angel when he’s upright. It’s a haze of a white belly fur- comb-over with an undercoating of pink. Like Victoria Secret Pink. The way he dances in circles with his paws in the air as if he’s attending an MC Hammer Revival,well, it just brings you to your knees,… wiping up more accidents.   I think Charly is spiritual. I think he  feels the spirit. I think he feels the movement inside especially after he eats.  I think my pup has an intrinsic closeness to the almighty because their names are a palindrome. What other animal can have that connection with a worshipped being? How about the many gods of Hinduism and all their appendages. An Octopus? Dog’s are a major part of the Kingdom. Thank God Aaron  ran into Little Bo-Peep’s flock when it came to sacrifice time.  Could you imagine what would happen to the dog population if  Toto was the first thing Moses saw coming down from Mt. Saini. Maybe moses wasn’t really talking to God on the mountain, maybe he was up there rescuing a dog in a bush?  “Here I am Dog”. Maybe Moses was dyslexic. Maybe what’s really written on those tablets are The Dog Command-ments.  Thou shall not steel any unoccupied shoes.. Thou shall not covet thy neighbors lawn with poo-poo. I am your One and only owner their shalt not be any owners before me….



et cetera
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