A Dog's Life

Most days I am so busy, I don't know which end is up.  Even if I find a bit of time here and there, it's spent watching TV shows or reading blogs.  My brain is just too tired to function in any sort of a creatively active way.  Then, all of a sudden, I find a respite--a few days when work slows down and my running around stops.  The first thing I do is have a couple of cocktails, all 1950s Don Draper styles, to relax and unwind.  

Inevitably, my boozy unwinding comes with a price.  As I come up with something to fill my time, for instance, I suddenly realize that I had just spent one too many hours hours taking photos of my dog.  Indeed, suddenly a combination of booze and time makes a photo journal of my dog's life seem like a perfectly logical way to creatively pass the time.   

Since I am very much invested in productively spending my time (I have thoroughly assimilated the Protestant work ethic), the only thing that remains is to post the said photos on a blog in the name of, obviously, productively spending my time.  So, without further ado, here is Grover's aka Stinky's photo journal.

Porndog: Grover enjoys exposing himself whenever he gets an opportunity to do so.  The best place to do it is his very own bed.

Most dogs shy away from an evening in front of the fire, but not Grover.  He cannot wait for the weather to get cold so he can sit in front of a warm fire and reflect on the day's events.

Sometimes a dog can get really sad cause he needs a haircut in the most desperate way.  Then, he gets a haircut and style and he's all, "come and get it bitches!"  

To his utter surprised disappointment, however, no matter the stylish cut, all dogs, both ladies and gents, cross the street when they see him coming.  No matter the cut, the barking annoys all potential canine friends.  The barking is a self-defense mechanism.  I mean, what small dog doesn't have a Napoleonic complex?

The height of creatively yet productively spending time came at the end of last October when I dressed Grover up as Princess Leia in preparation for Halloween.  I don't think he's forgiven me for it just yet.  He keeps bringing it up.

Dogs

Found Grover a nice place complete with a lovely couple and a dog named Buster.  I call him Uncle Buster since, at thirteen, he’s Grover’s senior (for easy comparison, in human years Uncle Buster is 91 and Grover 35).  Even if slightly smaller than Grover, it’s clear that Buster’s in charge.  That’s a good thing because my dog has me wrapped around his little paw and needs someone to tell him what’s what.  Uncle Buster’s begun to do so.  He even tried to hump Grover, just to reassert the hierarchy, but the hump didn’t quite work out.  Though he’s in great shape, especially for his age, it took Uncle Buster just a bit too long to get both of his paws on Grover’s behind.  By the time he lifted his other paw and was getting ready to make his move, Grover slipped away diplomatically.  Uncle Buster then made it clear that a concerted effort was beneath him by nonchalantly scratching his ear.

When I adopted Grover, he was a year old and afraid of his own shadow.  For a long while, I had to avoid sudden moves or he’d scurry under the nearest table.  I felt bad for the little pooch.  So bad, in fact, that I did everything he wanted and spoiled him rotten.  By the second year, Grover’s hold on me was obvious.  So much so, that a couple of friends decided that a Cesar Millan intervention was in order.  They sat me down in front of a TV and got me to watch episodes of the Dog Whisperer by telling me that I would learn all about doggy behavior.  Ha!  By the time the first episode ended, I felt like I had been on a therapist’s couch for half an hour.  Cesar trains people not dogs.

I don’t think I can be trained, however, even with Cesar’s expert advice.  I really gave it my best, a real sportsman's try, but since that therapeutic afternoon in Ohio, Grover has made a lot of progress in the “she’s my bitch” department, while I've made none (one could say I've regressed) in the "I'm gonna train your ass" department.  Grover learned, for instance, that when he wants something, all he needs to do is to bark at me (sit in front of me, stare me down, and bark).  He wants to go outside, he barks.  He wants to play, he barks.  He wants a treat, he barks.  I take complete responsibility, of course.  After all, I am the one who first goes for the door and asks if he wants to go out.  If not, I go for the toy and ask if he wants to play.  If not, I go for the treat.  It’s always one of the three so, in the end, Grover gets what he wants.  I’ve tried to alleviate the situation.  I have let him bark and bark, hoping he’d wear himself out, but the little dude has staying power and I have neighbors.  I think I'm in an abusive relationship with my dog.  I wonder if there is a support group for that. 

In my defense, though, just look at this face!  How do you discipline that?  You're my only hope, Uncle Buster!