That Dog Is Crazy, But She Has Company

A blonde woman I know has two dogs, a male and a female.  Both are rescues living a dog's Life of Riley in her care.  She's an animal lover who is never spare with her affection or willingness to spend whatever it takes to insure the health of these two privileged pooches.  Were I of the canine persuasion there is no doubt in my mind that my fondest wish would be to get my kibble at her house.  In fact several of her friends dearly hope there is such a thing as reincarnation allowing them a shot to return as one of her rescues.  She is the patron saint of dogs.

I, on the other hand, though I love dogs, have always been "in need of improvement" when it came to canine care.  Our family always had dogs when I was a kid and, though my brother and I enjoyed playing with the mutts when we felt like it, we were often neglectful when it came to maintenance.  Mom took over the feeding and grooming when she tired of nagging and shaming us to do our doggy duty.  (Hey Steve, I said DUTY right here in the blog!)  As adults my brother became a much better dog owner.  He has two completely undisciplined Boston Terriers  that he loves and dotes on diligently, whereas I had a rescue dog during the years my daughters were young, whom I never  replaced once the girls were off to college and she off to bow wow heaven.  Terri, like most dogs, was the world's worst piggy bank.  A never ending pile of money went into her care which returned nothing but crap perpetually in need of being picked up (whenever the neighbors were looking).  In other words, if you're thinking reincarnation, it's wise to hope for something other than being a dog in my care.  It would be doggy hell.

Where was I?  Oh, yes, the blonde lady and her two dogs...

Davis, the Mr. Cool of dogs.  No barking, no b.s.

The male, Davis, (a very cool name indeed) is the Perry Como or Bing Crosby of dogs. (If you're under 50, Google those guys or maybe think Fonzie.)  Nothing phases the calm, cool and collected border collie.  He's friendly,  unflappable and--best of all--is not a barker.  The female, Dory, is his polar opposite.  She is the Lindsey Lohan of dogs, a bat shit crazy redhead who needs constant supervision and a jumbo prescription of Valium.  She barks, jumps, races around chasing anything that moves, both real and imaginary.  She belongs in puppy prison without possibility of parole.  That being said, I kind of dig her.  She's my kind of gal, sort of a Caril Ann Fugate to my Charlie Starkweather.  (It's history kids.  Look it up!)  We make a good team, though I confess she has me beat when it comes to chasing squirrels.

Helter Skelter eyes = Lindsey Lohan behavior

As of this writing the blonde lady is attempting to keep us both in line with strong discipline and rewards for good behavior.  So far neither of us has earned a gold star.  She's considering Prozac for both of us and a shock collar for me, the dunce cap and naughty chair having been resounding flops.  Hey, I can't live by her rules!

Well, it's nearly time to chase the neighbors' dog or maybe some dust motes or imaginary intruders.  Anything will do.  Perhaps we'll get a dog treat if we stay off the furniture.

Come on Dory, let's stir up a whole kettle of crazy.  This mutt is down to clown and, since genes will out, so am I.  Woof! Woof Woof Woof!

One dizzy bitch

Don't fall for the innocent look.  She's plotting her next move.