Beating a Dead Horse Edition

Doo Doo Haiku

The poop is steaming

Amorphous, repulsive blob

Uh-oh. Hole in the bag.

Try this:

Every time your dog hunkers down to take a big country poo, air guitar and sing the opening notes of a Jimi Hendrix tune. That way, someday, the minute you begin to rock out, no matter where the dog is or what he is doing, he will poop, Pavlovian style. You can always make sure he is in the high grass or when nobody is looking, so you’ll never have to clean up his stinky mess again! Clever, right? I recommend the classic tune “Doo Doo Child.”

Papa’s Got A Brand New Bag

So, I’m not sure if you’ve noticed or not, but I’ve been writing a lot lately about dood doo and doo doo bags.

This story’s different. I promise.

So, I took the ol’ dog and chain to Whole Foods the other day on my way to my sister’s house for Friday night dinner. The whole dudes at Whole Foods are pup-positive, so they have water bowls out for the people who ride their dogs to the store to save on carbon emissions. While Atticus was lappin’ the liquid, this guy comes walking straight up to me, quickly, as if he had expected to find me there.

“The people in the homeless shelter eat better than that dog! Yeah, they do! You don’t know! You don’t care!”

This line of beration (new word I just made up -it means ‘the act of berating.’ Duh. I guess I could mean how many bees you are allowed in times of bee shortages, but then it would be ‘bee ration’, and that’s totally different) baffled me. First of all, I hope that people in the homeless shelter are not restricted to a diet of dry (but protein rich) kibble and water. I hope they do eat better than my dog. Second, was I arguing that I knew better? I think not! Third, just what was he implying? That my dog is too skinny? I beg to differ! That dog is lithe, lean, one might even say sinewy, but skinny? Absolutely not! And, I assure you, dear reader, that I DO CARE! It kind of doesn’t matter what it is, I care deeply.

At this point, I was ready to say, “Good day, sir!” in a tone that conveyed my justified disdain and lack of appreciation for his rant, but I had no time.

“ALPO!” he screamed! “Feed that dog ALPO!” He was like a rabid Lorne Greene.

Even a non-deranged Lorne Grreen looks a little rabid.

Who goes to Whole Foods to buy Alpo? It’s not even organic!

Crazy anti-anorexic canine man stormed into Whole Foods, probably to look for processed Cheez Flavored Whiz and Nitrate Jerky. Atticus looked at me quizzically, wagged his tail, and sat on my foot. He began to pant and lap at the water, so I decided we would rest for a minute while I contemplated the weird man. He was angry. The sight of me and my little dog made him mad. That’s strange.

I didn’t have long to ruminate, on account of the man came out of the store to yell at me some more. Perhaps I should have anticipated this.

“How old is that dog? How old?” Little clouds of spittle were forming on his lips.

I answered. That’s what I do. Someone asks a question, and I answer. Sometimes I even answer before they ask.

“Seven months.”

“Yeah, right! Seven months! I wish the world was only seven months old! That’s too young to know about lying and cheating and stealing! I’ll bet you teach that dog how to lie and cheat, don’t you?! Lying, cheating dog! Stealing dog!”

Well, that was it! It’s one thing to insult me or the world, but my little Atticus?! Crazy motha fucka! I gave him a piece of my mind!

“Good day, sir!”  I turned on my sharply heel and almost fell on my face because Atticus was still sitting on my foot, and then moved quickly, but in a very dignified manner, away from Nut-Nut. “I said, ‘Good day!'”

I got half way across the parking lot (I was moving kind of quickly), when he yelled, “Hey! You forgot your water bowl!”

I began to retrace my steps to let him know that it wasn’t my bowl, and that I wouldn’t say that it was, because I don’t lie or cheat or steal, but I thought the better of it.

Pretty weird walk to my sister’s house, right? But wait – it gets even more strange.

Did I mention that the whole time the crazy man was ranting at me, he was holding a bag …of his own urine? Yeah, that’s right! it was a big plastic bag attached to a tube that disappeared into his clothing. No wonder he was so angry!

That really happened. No shit.


BONUS: Joke told at Friday night dinner:

So, there are these three samurais. One was Japanese, one was Chinese, and one was, inexplicably, Jewish.

They were trying to prove who was the most skilled.

The Chinese samurai pulled a small, intricate box from the folds of his samurai diaper thing. Inside was a bee. When the bee was released from the box, the samurai lifted his sword and whuck, whick! -that’s the sound of a samurai sword in the air- he sliced the bee cleanly in half before it was able to fly away. It split down the middle and fell dead on the ground.

The other samurais clapped politely. Samurais are all about polite.

The Japanese samurai removed a box from his diaper thing. (Oh, wait! Samurais don’t wear diaper things! Sumo wrestlers and Mormons do! My bad!) He took a box out of his…pocket. In it was a common housefly. As soon as the fly was released from the box, whuck, whick! The fly was sliced into four even quarters and fell immobile to the ground. Impressivo! All eyes turned to the Jewish samurai.

He took from his pocket a third box, tinier than the others. In it was a gnat. He opened the lid and as the gnat took to  the air, whuck, whick! But the gnat flew away, into the evening sky.

The Japanese and Chinese samurais looked piteously at the Jewish samurais. (Samurais don’t gloat. They’re above all that.) “That was a very difficult target. We are sorry that you missed it.”

“Well,” said the Jewish samurai, “circumcision is not supposed to kill!”

Get it?