A DOG'S LIFE

I generally am not an envious creature since despite outward appearances, most people often have more complex and hidden weighty baggage than even I am able to stuff into my tiny overhead bin. Anyway my life has been reasonably charmed with good calories, chances, and a Teflon-tempered family willing to still walk me even when I gurgle, grouse and grumble.  So it’s sensible to just stick with my own known quantity of crazy and slog through a routine trying not to inadvertently break other people’s stuff or publicly scratch too vigorously, except when buying lottery tickets.

I will admit though I do gaze upon the neighbor’s ol’ yellow dog and at times admire his simple, unpretentious and seemingly perfect existence. Even with all of the positive support surrounding me I still have to constantly consider consequences and what people may think if I make odd choices or do unusual things. That’s not the case for that geezer-mutt next door since he doesn't care about shallow hidden whispers from others on the color of his coat, his mental acumen, health, and of course the enduring ripeness of his scent.

It would be great to just dash out to the border of the front yard, mindful of the underground shock-wire of course, and gleefully start yelling at door to door salespeople and politicians who dare approach? Who wouldn’t love the freedom when they get the urge to purge while on a walk, to just just stop, drop, and wrangle a rope or two to green up a neighbor’s lawn and lubricate their mower’s wheels. Life would be a lot easier if I could chew on furniture to brush my teeth, did not have to wash or even wear clothes, and got to lap up my coffee right from the floor rather than messing with putting it in a mug first.

Since I reckon I could get through puberty by the age of 2 and on to senior discounts by 3^rd grade, even with the whole 7 to 1 aging thing, clearly a dog’s life is looking pretty attractive to me right now. Despite that few dogs work for the government, some do have a bad reputation for harassing postal workers, which I find unbelievable since I’m sure they ALL must be in the same union. Given the similarity of great lifetime benefits, low and slow work expectations moving papers from street to stoop, and walking around unshaven and hairy - how else could you explain it?

Dust Bunny Blame

Due to my persistent patter that I am disheveled and a bit of a dust devil when it comes to cleanliness is a tad misleading. It is not really ME that makes most of the messes around this ape cage, it is those dumb bunnies who hide under the toe kicks in the kitchen and waft across the floor at the slightest sneeze of a breeze. I don’t care how much I sweep or suck the buggers up with a bigger vac duct, they always seem to find a way to multiply and fly in the face of my hopes for a spic n’ span  place.

Hey I know I rarely smell of bleach but that doesn’t mean I am a fan of competing for floor space with fuzzy baseball-sized amalgams of intertwined dust and dirt. More than once I’ve suffered a squirt of adrenaline as one of those darting wind-driven faux-rodents streaks up from behind to fondle my meaty beat feet. Though I can think of several things more unpleasant caught aloft surfing on a warm-winded vortex, who wants the comet tail from some linty lapin always trying to sneakily squeeze that out of me.

What worries me is given the degree of follicle fleece flying freely at floor-level, logic would have it that the dust stuff is breeding down there somewhere too. That takes the suspicious spotlight off of the attic mite-y mice of course since they typically only come downstairs to watch Tom and Jerry cartoons while ironing their capes. I also don’t believe my cave-feet are to blame since I’ve turned to Rogaine and that means the silky long locks of my ankle-manes have never looked fuller and more alive.

So though I am at a loss as to the creation of this excess loess, my wife’s judgmental and furtive glances towards my thinning ‘Bowl-Magnon’ cranium have not gone un-noticed. Oh sure my lice have a little less to work with and mowing the Mohawk takes half the time now, but surely one hairless rat alone cannot be at the root of this dusty bunny foot ball invasion? Too bad we don’t have a few domestic pets around since I’m looking for something to blame and take a broom to other than myself; because it’s times like these that I could sure use a little MORE ‘hare of the dog’!

BEE-curious

Despite my craggy crusty white bread exterior, on occasion I have been known to be ‘sweet’ and melted butter soft. Since I’m happily married I do my best to hide my warm and yeasty dough-boy self and usually don’t share my best nectar with those who I don’t know from friend or foe. That fact apparently did not resonate with a random bulky bee who just so happened to seek a patch of hand-shaped shade as I inadvertently brought my paw to bear briefly upon his fuzzy bumble-bum.

Like most folks I’m no perfect Pope, so translating Latin, pig or otherwise from flapping flags and pretentious diplomas is not my strongest of suits. However while my eyes were turned to the skies engaged mightily in that very task, the bossy bee interrupted me by rubbing his furry figure violently under my pinkie before pricking me with his pointy stick.  Oh don’t worry about my barbless benefactor and his electric kiss since he flew away fine with barely a ‘thank you’; just a bit jumpy n’ grumpy from my unfortunate fondle of his itty-bitty bee-hind rumpy. 

Gee who asked ‘Buzz LightREAR’ out on a date anyway – surely not me since I don’t need more complications in my life? Even my wife only gets near my dust covered dump of a truck when it’s absolutely necessary so why would I be expected to engage in a ‘homo-insectual’ relationship with some tush-pushy buttinsky bee? All I know is that for a brief moment my brain was receiving mixed messages as my finger tingled and that hairy manicurist was getting a little too enthusiastic showing off his needlepoint and ample emery board. 

Other than the lingering itch in my littlest of digits and since I’m a Pollen-anna by nature, I have to say my shameless Queeny bee encounter was more of a pleasant surprise than a painful one. Yes I’m positive and not dense (I know because my glass is always at least half full of fat) so there is something to be learned here about my own inner nature. Yes I clearly have to do a better job of suppressing the beast piece of my personality – since obviously I possess an abundance of Anmalia magnetism and I don’t want to BEE too desirable to the opposite species.

Over-couture

I have to admit that I am not the snappiest turtle or dresser that you will ever meet. Of course I care about my appearance but the truth is I don’t really care if other primates don’t prove receptive to my presentation. I typically try to wear a light fleece jacket for most public hangings (of artwork) but when the lint builds up into a genuine fur coat or if my nose and toes turn bluer than normal from the cold it’s time for the OVERCOAT.

Though our rumpled exteriors are similar I do not own a traditional ‘oh so cool’ ‘Colombo-style’ khaki coat since I live more in a depression than in a trench. Anyway my wife already fears what I will do pants-less when bored in ordinary outerwear with free-flowing flaps, so she swaddles and keeps me occupied with pockets full of linty mints, stripped zippers and hidden snaps. Typically now when the weather turns foul like my breath, I’m routinely poured into and cinched up tight inside a bulky hooded ripstop cocoon to keep most of winter out and hopefully my cold shoulders or other pointy parts in.

Like that baseball crime-fighter Batman, I like to keep my gear handy and strapped to me at all times for emergencies. So these jumbo jackets come in handy for a fat-cat’s hat n’ glove storage and on occasion when my bicycle’s airbags fail. However those puffy parkas in concert with my hulking hide also make it nearly impossible to locate a set of keys, coins, or a ball point pen without a side-trip to the airport to be scanned by a metal detector.

Can’t anyone boast of a toasty overcoat that I can actually find things in that’s smaller than a bread-box, or at least is sewn with a transparent marsupial pouch to see the bun crumbs breed in my pocket bottoms? Finally modern couture that’s kind to my tiny insect mind – jackets that not only keep me and the thorax warm but also entertains too; with sea monkey stores on one side and an ant farm on the other. Anyway those salty shrimpy snackitizers will come in handy if ever forced to bivouac in a giant forest with my fellow formicidae, under the stars and a bounce-house sized winter, stuffed n’ tufted toga, to keep the Queen and me warm.