Victim of Anthropomorphism (I)

Yeah yeah. Back so soon. This isn't going to become a habit, trust me. I've got heaps better things to do than sit in front of a computer. Like eat. Sleep. Eat again. Sleep again. With the occasional peto to keep people on their toes. I'm currently practising the Italian national anthem.

Anyways, one of the downsides of doghood is anthropomorphism. Human beings not only treat you like one of them, they ascribe human characteristics. One of the upsides of doghood is that you can humor the poor saps, feigning human characteristics, watching their human faces light up in delight when they think they've made personal contact. Per esempio:

Two-legged dog: Well, Dermott, what d'you reckon about the US sub-prime mortgage imbroglio?

Me: I reckon it only underlines the utter frailty of the capitalist system vis a vis its dependence on intangibles like confidence.

The two-legged dog walks away chuffed that their pet makes Einstein look like a hairy goose who stuck his finger in a power outlet.

And I snigger up my hairy sleeve. Gotcha again, bub.

All of which brings me to the fact that I've been tagged. Tagging is, apparently, an internet blog thing. So I read online. I wouldn't really know. I'm a dog, after all.

My first tag came from Judith. Judith's a terrific person, grande cuoca, friend of the two-legged dogs. And mine. She even reads my inane utterances to be found littering this site.

Overlooking the fact that I'm just a dog, she wants me to list my five strengths as a writer.

Mmmm.

1. I have paws the size of elephants' feet. Without assistance, when I try to type - per esempio, the letter A - I get this on the screen: 2t7213uot. Two-legged dogs should try picking out the letter A on their keyboard with a clenched fist.

See what I mean?

Thus, ingenuity became my first strength as a writer. With a pencil clenched between my over-sized teeth, I learned to pick out the keys I needed. First downside - it takes me eight weeks to type a sentence. Second downside - I've developed an addiction to both pencil lead and the timber around it. I'm up to two packs of pencils a day. I'm looking into the availability of pencil lead and timber patches.

2. I suppose imagination is a strength. A very old, very experienced writer once told one of my two-legged dogs that the key to writing is to take the lid off your imagination. Sometimes I imagine Barbra as a medium-rare burger.

3. I'm a perfectionist. I can go through an extra pack of pencils getting a phrase exactly right - if not absolutely perfectly grammatically right, right in the context of the flow and rhythm, and, even more importantly, right in the choice of the appropriate word for its colour and tone. That's a lot of rights. More rights than a Formula One circuit. I'd call myself anal retentive but the peti belie that.

4. As per the immediately above, I hate prosaic. Barbra brings new meaning to prosaic.

5. Fun. I like to have fun. I like fun. The world is a sh*thouse place with not enough fun in it.

Excuse me while I open another pack of pencils.

Home Is Where The Fart Is

Yeah yeah. Tacky. Cheap pun. But now it's out in the open. So to speak. My middle name is Windy. I've been known to break seismometers with my own version of WMDs. In fact, if I'd lived in Iraq, I'd have been reason enough to invade the dang place.

So how in the name of brisket bones is this relevant? Because I'm in the mood for reflection. Speaking of which, Barbra's always in the mood for reflection. Her own. In the nearest mirror.

How many homes have I had in my medium-sized life? One. With the two-legged dogs. First, in Sydney. Now, in Italy. Two locations, one home.

Enough reflection. My boofy head hurts.

Anyways, back to the saga. It was after midnight when Barbra and I were delivered to our two-legged dogs in the wee Tuscan town with the curious name of Castiglion Fiorentino. I still can't get my big pink tongue around the name and if I can't get my big pink tongue around something there's something rotten in the state of Danimarca:

A nice guy called Joe drove us the six hours from Milan down to the big pink tongue-twisting placed called Casteloneiefeerentennnesomething. He didn't speak Dog, we didn't speak Italian. It was a quiet six hours. But Joe was nice. He bought himself some dinner on the way and shared it with us in the back of the van. On the basis that food is the number one priority in my life - nay, the only priority - I immediately knew I was going to like this place.

Barbra, for whom food isn't a great priority, mistook it for a marriage proposal.

Next morning, we made our debuts in Castileenafarineesomething:


Jet-lagged? Believe it. Idiotic bullet-head haircut? Better believe it. The cloth-eared bint in the grooming place in Sydney where we had our pre-travel wash and polish had never groomed an Old English before. She's got a great career ahead of her in some other job.

So what's the ultimate fundamental difference between Sydney and Castilleforinteensomething?

Here, my WMDs are called peti.

Ooops. Peeeeeeeeew. Head for the hills.

Bury My Broken Heart at Milan Airport

Yeah yeah, so it's been a while.

Enough of the apologies.

Where was I? On my way to Milan in the belly of a Jumbo. Stuck in a crate, with only Barbra Streisand for company. In her cat travelling box. Did I mention that they stuck her in a cat travelling box? If not, they stuck her in a cat travelling box. Pointing and sniggering at her sure passed the 26-odd hours.

Ah, Milan. What plans I had, what plans. I don't know about Barbra. I never know about Barbra.

Y'see, as is plainly obvious from the photos that decorate these pages, I'm a fashion fiend. I was voted Best Dressed Boofhead At The Local Park three years in a row.

What I didn't know about fashion you could write on the pinhead that is Barbra.

What was I going to do? I was going to schmooze. With guys like ...

... him.

Whatever his name is.

It'll come to me.

I was going to hit the fashion shows. I was going to lounge in the front row with a glass of bubbly. I was going to pick out something for Barbra. Something in which she could make her Italian debut.

Something in keeping.

On the basis that she's famous for doing her best work on her back, I was thinking along the lines of "Chic Cheap Hooker":

I could see her covering my bills for brisket bones in something like that, couldn't you?

Was I set to go? Was I ever. They unloaded us from the plane. They wheeled us into customs.

Which was where we stayed! For twelve hours!

The vet at Milan airport decided that my travelling crate wasn't big enough. We had a six-hour drive from Milan down to our two-legged dogs waiting for us in Castiglion Fiorentino. And no way on earth was that Italian vet going to let me travel in my crate. The crate in which I'd already travelled for 26 hours.

So we waited. Me in my too-small crate, Barbra in her cat travelling box. While someone hand-built a new, bigger crate for me.

The fashion shows? Pffft. Schmoozing with ... whatever his name is ... pffft.

A money-spinning frock for Barbra? Pffft.

Twelve hours later, we were loaded into a van.

Six hours later, we were dumped in the laps of our two-legged dogs.

Whatever their names are.

Sick in Transit Gloria

That, above, is one for the Latin freaks. You all know who you are. In your togas, mumbling about the Ides of March.

Twenty six hours in a crate in the bowels of a Thai Airlines Jumbo. I've spent better twenty-six hour slabs of my life.

So has Barbra.

So traumatised was she that she burst into a Gloria Estafan medley.

I threw up.

And there was my Kodak Box Brownie.

Next stop:

Fear and Loathing in the Bowels of a Thai Airlines Jumbo

Yeah yeah, I can do Hunter S. Thompson. I can outdo Hunter S. Thompson. Without chemical aids. Unless you call a brisket bone a chemical aid. I don't. I call a brisket bone breakfast. And any other meal you care to name.

So where was I? The two-legged dogs dumped io and Barbra - there's a bit of Italian for you; even though I'm not there yet (blogwise, so to speak), the two-legged dogs in the house had been prattling to me in Italian and I'm not as stupidotto as I look (there I go again) - in our usual boarding kennel.

Suck on that last paragraph, Hunter S.

Anyway, there we were at the kennel. For, we assumed, the usual couple of days.

Nuh. The usual couple of days stretched to a week.

One week later, it was two weeks.

M-hm.

Then, one day, sure enough, the kennel girls came for us with our leashes. Here we go, we thought. The two-legged dogs have indulged themselves long enough, they've had a twinge of guilt over leaving us locked up at Doggy San Quentin. We're going home.

We thought.

Nuh. We were loaded into the back of a strange van.

You should have seen the look on Barbra's face. Luckily, I had my Kodak Box Brownie with me:

Pity I didn't realise I had my oversized paw over the lens.

Be that as it may, the van took us to - of all places - the Sydney Veterinary Hospital. What the - ?

There, a vet poked and prodded us, wrote down a lot of stuff, and sent us to bed. Bed? A cage. I say again, What the - ?

Next morning, we were loaded into crates. One crate each. Barbra in hers, me in mine. I say yet again, What the - ?

We - in our crates - were loaded into another van.

Next time I opened my eyes, what did I see?

This time I remembered to get my oversized paw out of the way. I'm no dill. Even if the end result is wonky because my oversized paws were all atremble.

What were we doing at Sydney Airport?

More importantly, what in the name of brisket bones were we doing being wheeled - in our crates - towards one of these things?

If my oversized paws were all atremble before, they were all aquiver now.

Next thing we knew, we were being loaded - in our crates - into the bowels of a Thai Airlines Jumbo. I'd like to have been able to post a photograph of the inside of the bowels of a Thai Airlines Jumbo.

But I'd eaten the Kodak Box Brownie.

Fear and loathing can do that to an oversized buffoon.

Those Were The Days (IV)

Regrets? I've had a few. But then again, too few to mention.

Silly song lyrics. They never exactly apply when you need them. But at least quoting them shows off the depth and breadth of your LP collection. Yes, LPs. Call me contrary, but I reckon CDs are a passing fad. Vinyl rules!

Which is my roundabout way of introducing Buster.

Buster was my mate. He lived next door. He still does. That is, he still lives in the house next door to the house in which I lived. Only I don't live there anymore.

He came from a pet shop. His overbite was such that his top jaw came into the room ten seconds before his bottom jaw. He was a Maltese Terrier crossed with a Floor Mop. Jam a stick up his backside, dunk him in suds, and the floor would be clean in a trice. Not that I ever even contemplated it.

Here's Buster:

That's him on the left. That's Barbra poking her coiffed bonce through in the middle. Never one to miss a photo call, Barbra. "Evergreen" is never far from her lips.

Buster's favourite game was to put his head in my mouth. Maybe, in an earlier life, he was a dentist.

Sadly, there are no existing photographs of Buster with his head in my mouth. The two-legged dogs in the house were too busy pointing and laughing. Fools.

Buster used to come for sleepovers.

I miss Buster.

And I'm still not sure exactly how it all happened.

One minute, I was working on my ventriloquism act:

The next, the two-legged dogs in the house were suddenly talking to me in Italian.

One minute, I was in the usual queue to use the only tree in the local park:

The next, I saw the house being packed up around me.

One minute, Barbra was taking up my dare to cock her leg like real blokes do:

The next, Barbra and I were being bundled off to the boarding kennels where the two-legged dogs always left us, abandoned us, deserted us, whenever they went on holidays.

Little did we know what was in store!

Those Were The Days (III)

Now where was I? Before I was so rudely interrupted? By this little piece of defamatory flummery titled The Dog Sat On The Tuckerbox.

See you in court, Missy!

So where was I? I was happily ensconced in Sydney, Australia, but trapped in a house with Barbra Streisand. Barbra aside, life wasn't bad. Best of all, I slept a lot:

At least when people weren't poking cameras in my hairy little face.

Now, without getting too personal, and at the risk of proffering too much information, little dogs growing into big dogs have little bladders growing into big bladders. Not to mention the long, winding, sausage-shaped thing inside you that leads from your tummy to your botty.

In short, what goes in must come out. And the challenge for a young chap is to master exactly when and where.

I admit it. I struggled.

The two-legged dogs in the house would run around hysterically with bundles of toilet paper and sponges -

- while I refuelled:

I mean, what did they expect? They had a big white porcelain thingy in a special room for their needs. Actually, as I got older, I discovered the big white porcelain thingy came in handy for a quick cooling drink on a hot day. But that's a story for another day.

To cut a long post short, the two-legged dogs in the house, fed up with galloping around after me like demented sanitary workers, took drastic action:

The horror, the horror. Caged, with a blue plastic sheet under me.

Any wonder I still wake up screaming in the night.