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?

Green Sleeves n' Shelves

It’s usually a bad idea whenever I explore my drawers regardless if I do it in the bedroom closet vanity or in the back of the refrigerator. While I can usually control what goes and grows into the underwear or socks, I really never know what I am going to find fascinatingly fetid inside the fridge. Oddly beyond the rainbow of colored Tupperware containers (both inside and out) and the Rorschach jelly and gravy shelf-blots it was something very GREEN yet very ordinary which caught my eye.

From dairy to berries everything in that ice box had some kind of cutesy label or attempt at a memorable marketing catch-phrase to grab what’s left of my aging and fleeting attention span. That makes sense for foods that are grocery store shiny and trying to sell me on their merits before I check-out – (more than ordinary anyway). However once the stuff has been fermenting freely on frigid racks for weeks I use my snout more than my cerebrum when deciding what’s good to eat rather than what smells like feet.

So that frees up a smattering of what’s left of my grayish mattering to think about really important worldly topics like, is ‘Farm Fresh’ really the best marketing term for the food lurking in our refrigerators. I already felt that the household dairy staples of ‘Sour Cream’ and ‘Cottage Cheese’ sound like stuff that might have parked inside a cow too long. But I have to guess that it has been quite a while since any of these Mad Ave Ad geniuses have taken a big country whiff on a truly fresh farm lately. 

I’m not a fan of ‘restaurant quality’ marked items either since I guess stuck-up true foodies aren’t apparently eating in the same bottom-dollar vinyl buffet booths that I slide my coverall-covered rump into. You can also save your snooty ‘sea salt’ for someone who sympathizes because word has it - THAT stuff comes from the same place where fish go to the bathroom.  Hmm, that fact alone makes me now question the origins of that ice cold, green-sleeved Mountain Dew I dream to ‘DO’; clearly before ‘downing’ I’d better wash my mouth out with a little soap, or better yet . . . a lot of alcohol!

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.

Hot Auction Heaven

For recreation and divine perspiration my wife and I bid and spirit stuff from all types of auctions. It’s not that we need anything in particular but we enjoy perusing through other people’s junk and paying a premium for heaving their leavings. What better way to embrace my life’s short history than being crammed into a small space with an OLD bunch of hunched  sweaty coots rubbing up and competing against me for dusty, rusty, and musty stuff-ty.      

         

Being raised by wolves I guess I am compensating for the fact that I survived a ‘hairy’ repressed childhood where the value of most ‘things’ was gauged on how they tasted or how good they felt to sleep on. My folks never let me beg for leftovers at mealtimes or settle for broken chew toys when growing up in a hut, so now I’m forced to seek out and make up for those lost experiences as an adult. At least my heritage explains my Husky size, the constant panting after a walk to the refrigerator, and my persistent dog breath the dentist so often complains about when scoping out my blow hole.   

I fit in well with the auction scene – where else can a saddle-burr like me give somebody the finger and they simply raise the price rather than beat in my face or cuss me out. Fortunately most of my twitchy TICks come from my watch rather than the forest, but I do have to be mindful to avoid conspicuous emanations, gesticulations and random bump scratching during furious bidding. When the wife risks prosecution for leaving a minor unattended, I do all the major work myself like folding the bid-card into an airplane, so it’s obvious that until she returns I have no one to do my bidding. 

I’m dangerously distractible and easily mesmerized by expensive shiny objects, so most lowly estate auctions are a safe escape since there is little risk of finding anything chrome toned or pit-free except for a few buffed n’ bald heads. Generally at most auction gatherings the only thing more weathered and craggy than the junk they’re hawking is the stuffed seizure-geezers who glue themselves, and defend rabidly, centered front rows of orderly padded seats. When my number’s ultimately up I hope heaven is just like this, except instead of white shrouds and wings, the ‘auction enlightened’ will proudly ‘peacock’ their rough stubble, patinaed pitch forks, patched pants, and dirty denim vests … and oh yeah,  since I’m there it will be LOTS hotter if that’s possible!