Heat Wave

It is freaking hot here. Freaking HOT I tell you. The heat really puts a cramp in my style. You would think I had been born in Alaska, and not in Arizona, but nevertheless, heat is not my friend. I bellyache like a fat bastard when I have to be out in it for very long.

Brad LOVES the heat. So he says, but guess who came home from work a big bear today? Not me, not Julie. BRAD.

I love Brad. He is my bud. HOWEVER, I do not feel sorry for him, because you know what he does to me? He turns the AC up to 80 while he is gone!

Exsqueeze me? I am black. I have a fur coat. If I could sweat, you would see big puddles all over the floor. Sure, he leaves the ceiling fan on for me, but couldn't he turn the air down to 68 degrees or something?

I don't ask for much around here.

Okay, don't laugh at that.

Agendas

You know, there is something nice about getting older. It is harder for Brad or Julie to get mad at me. I can get away with murder most of the time. Even swallowing whole chicken bones. Please do not misunderstand me. I do not wish to displease Brad and Julie, but sometimes our agendas just don't match up.

What is high on their list of priorities is not necessarily high on mine.

For example:

Julie buys a garbage can with a lid on it to keep me out of it.
I see this as a great way of keeping delicious leftovers nice and fresh.

Julie uses moisturizer to keep her skin soft.
I see this as a delicious frosting.

Brad wears socks everyday to keep his feet warm.
I see taking these socks as a nice way to get Brad to chase me.

(And then get a belly rub after he catches me)

Brad plants something new in the garden to admire.
I use the new shrubbery as another nice territory marker.

I don't know what to do sometimes, but I just have to keep being me. I am Howard, a fine looking pooch, with an agenda of my own. I came into this world a fighter, and I will likely leave this world a fighter.

Chicken Leg Fiasco

The other night Brad and Julie had a rotisserie chicken for dinner. They gave me a few bites, but instead of satisfying me, it made me hunger for more. It was all I could think about. That chicken was my heroine. My mind was reeling on how to go about getting more of it. To Brad and Julie, I may have looked like I was napping, but I was truly scheming, planning, and devising a mental plan.

Soon the moment of attack came. The kitchen was clean. Brad was in the office. Julie was in the laundry room. The garbage can stood like a beacon of hope to my hungry stomach. All I wanted was in that can.

Using my stealth-like ninja skills I silently made my way to the can. My heart was racing. Orange Effer be damned if he made his way by at this very moment. I would just have to write an IOU to deal with his sorry presence later.

Then it all went wrong. Hopelessly wrong. As I opened the lid, the can came crashing to the floor in an explosion of all the hopes I had blowing up in my handsome mug. Faster than Orange Effer can hop a fence, Julie came racing around the corner to grab the chicken leg out of my mouth. I swallowed it whole.

The past 72 hours have been, shall we say, tense around here, but I Howard am here to tell you that I have the guts of a billy goat. Thank God, because Brad and Julie cannot afford more than two surgeries in a year with this economy.

Just My Dog

No picture needed for the words below, because if you have ever loved one of my kind, you will close your eyes and see the beauty of your own best friend.

Thank you anonymous commentator. This poem is too good not to share on my dog blog. My shiny-coated magnificent dog blog. Ahem.

JUST MY DOG

He is my other eyes that can see above
the clouds; my other ears that hear above
the winds. He is the part of me that can
reach out into the sea.

He has told me a thousand times over that
I am his reason for being: by the way he
rests against my leg; by the way he thumps
his tail at my smallest smile; by the way he
shows his hurt when I leave without taking him.
(I think it makes him sick with worry when he
is not along to care for me.)

When I am wrong, he is delighted to forgive.
When I am angry, he clowns to make me smile.
When I am happy, he is joy unbounded.
When I am a fool, he ignores it.
When I succeed, he brags.
Without him, I am only another man. With him,
I am all-powerful.
He is loyalty itself.
He has taught me the meaning of devotion.
With him, I know a secret comfort and a
private peace. He has brought me understanding
where before I was ignorant.
His head on my knee can heal my human hurts.
His presence by my side is protection against
my fears of dark and unknown things.
He has promised to wait for me...
whenever...wherever--in case I need him.
And I expect I will--as I always have.


He is just my dog.

Anonymous Where Are You?

I miss you, my anonymous commenter. Effer drama just isn't as fun to share without your input. I hope you are okay, and know that I Howard am worried about you. Do you have your own effer drama that you need my help with? I am quite intimidating if needed. I am a dog. It is what I do.

A cat wouldn't worry about you. Trust me. And if they did, they wouldn't let you know.

Cats are evil....I'm just sayin'.

C - A - T = Callous And Terrible

D - O - G = Dilligent Obedient Good

Damn I look good in Brad's shirt. In fact, I think I probably look better than Brad does in this shirt. Not that I am bragging or anything, but when you are a shiny-coated magnificent bastard there is no denying it. Facts are facts my friends.

Well, things have been happening around here that are, how shall I say, unsavory. Orange Effer is back with more courage than ever. All I can say is that he must have a death wish. I think he has lost his mind. Seriously, Orange Effer is off his rocker. Get this, Orange Effer has been prancing two inches in front of my glass door on a daily basis. Yes, you read that right, TWO INCHES!

Don't worry, I'm not going to put myself through a glass door or anything. I am not the crazy one. HOWEVER, one of these days that door will be open and then it is curtains for Orange Effer!

Little Dooce is some kind of strange breed of pittbull. I don't know this for a fact, but I think he may have actual bull in him. He knocks around in his backyard so much that I swear one of these days the fence will fall over. I am just waiting for the horns to grow out of the side of his head.

Brad and Julie have some sort of water delivery service nowadays. It baffles me why of all things they would actually want some stranger in a loud, noisy truck drop off huge jugs of water only to knock on the door and then run like a little bastard! This is poor customer service in my opinion. I think the guy should come it, sit for a moment, let me sniff him up and down and make my character judgment. The Schwann company is excellent about this. When we lived in Arizona the Schwann man would come and drop off his frozen goods, rough me up, and give me a dog treat. That man was the next best thing to Brad.

Anyhow, this is my crazy life.