If you’re going to have a dog you might as well train it, and if you’re going to train it you might as well have someone else do it. I’d suggest your wife.
This gives you additional time at the Forest Club to work on your poetry, and someone else to blame when the dog misbehaves at the airport or a Thanksgiving get-together with all those pesky kids.
I added an extra layer of deniability by putting Trophy in charge of minor details: paying for the classes and making sure the dog attends them regularly.
Can’t wait to write another chapter of poetry (or is it a verse?) tomorrow.
Following training class last Saturday, Trophy and Sweetie dropped by the Forest to tell me about winning a big prize. Oh goodie. Probably a certificate. Nobody asked, but I think prizes should be $500 gift certificates at The Barkery.
But winning a prize is winning a prize, so to be supportive I ordered my wife a celebratory flute of The Club’s finest room-temp champagne, another pint of Coors for me, and a fat stick of beef jerky. I tore a piece off for the dog.
“So,” I said. ”She won a prize. Great. What for?”
“Fetch,” said Trophy.
Pause …
“Fetch?” I said.
”Fetch.”
Long pause …
“Fetch? She got a prize to learn how to fetch?”
Very long Pause …
Dear Reader, if your dog needs lessons to learn how to fetch, you might have a possum.
I ordered another pint and got wondering about what kind of academy this is, where dogs need a semester to master the art of finding a ball and hauling it somewhere.
Having to teach a dog to fetch is like having to teach a teenager to shoplift. What next? Nap lessons? How to go wee wee?
All the while I thought Sweetie was getting trained Old School, as in: “Gimme paw! Roll over! Gimme other paw! Thaasss a good doggie!”
Not that training a dog is easy, especially ours. Can’t tell you how many minutes I’ve worked with Sweetie trying to improve her table manners. Nothing seems to work no matter how much I yell at her.
We can’t take her anywhere. Went to some folks’ house for supper and before we could even get done saying Grace, the dog had her big snout buried in the casserole, with an eye on the butter.
And talking. Conversation? We speak good English in her presence trying to help Sweetie learn but she still garbles it all up. It’s partly being self-conscious about having a lisp. (I think it’s cute when she stammers and shakes her head and finally blurts out “Let’th go outhhide and chaeth th-th-th-thum thquirrelths!” And then cocks her head to the side. So darling!)
I sometimes make it seem worse than it is. Me and the dog talk pretty good together and have long conversations when the wife is gone. We wait for her to leave because I don’t want Trophy exposed to Sweetie’s coarse language and iffy opinions.
My darling wife would despair to learn her doggie hates all the pink stuff she has to wear, like the collar and leash and the fuzzy booties for around the house. And the dog’s not exactly politically correct, although Trophy would laugh to hear Sweetie impersonating Kamala Harris hucking up a hairball.
FIY: Ukaih Tourits Bord
Dear VisitUkiah.com website wizards: Let’s not keep meeting like this. In the town that invented marijuana everyone knows the song “Ukiah” was written and recorded by the Doobie Brothers. Not “Dobbie” Brothers as reported, repeatedly, in your VisitUkiah introduction.
No one has ever heard of a Dobbie but they’ve all smoked a Doobie. Or even two.
ADVICE: Lay off the doobies until you finish the assignment. Also: mess up again and you’ll be punished with DRINKS & TASERS.
(Did everyone notice that portion of the website got removed instamediately?)
October Baseball
The Cleveland baseball team formerly known as the Indians has reached the playoffs (who cares?) and by now might even be in the World Series. This tells me three things:
The gods of baseball have a sense of humor.
The gods of baseball are patient.
The gods of baseball hate me.
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