It’s me, Buddy The Wonderdog* I had Emperor Terrance, Lord
of Church Street and its environs, Provider of Sustenance and Keeper of the
(pellet stove) Flame** set up the voice regonizhun software on this box so’s I
can write while he sits over in the comfy chair, swillin’ the eggnog and eatin’
the stuff he won’t let me have.
The occasional glitch in the software will sometimes render
a “Woof” as a “WooF”, a “wOof” or even a “WOOF”. I apologize for such errors in
advance. Doggerel, our language is a lot like various forms (Mandarin,
Cantonese and other) or Oriental languages and Arabic, dependent upon context,
pronunciation and syntax. If something comes out sideways I don’t got no
Ko-Rec-Type or WyteOut and, even if I did, I got no hands, just paws. Deal with
it.
So, where was I? Oh, yeah, me and The Guy have had our home
for 2-1/2 years. He was in the house here longer but without it don’t have a
dog, it ain’t a home! I came from a nice enough house where I was before
(Buckingham Palace, does that ring a bell?) but try getting up on the furniture
around those people***! This place is a little beat up (The Guy says it just
looks, “lived in”—yeah, like it was lived in when an F5 twister hit) but a
nice, snuggly, somewhat “experienced” couch that smells like ME—that’s heaven
with bad upholstery, noi’msane?
The food here is WAY better than it was at them other
places—especially the vegan PETA shelter that I was in for a couplea weeks,
before I got into the DPP (see note 1). I get MEAT with some other stuff and
it’s all good. I get some decent kibble that’s made by a nice lady with a
cooking show on the teevee (The Guy
don’t got one, one of life’s small trials); I think her name is Rayshell Ray.
Oh, I get cookies, too. Bacon, peanut butter, blueberries, chicken fat and just
enough flower to hold it all together—YUM!
I’m not complaining, this is pretty good gig. Like any
relationship there’s some give and take; The Guy gives me biscuits and I take
them back to my bed, crunch them while dreaming that they are small mammals or
brilliantly plumaged songbirds and take a nap—eating is hard work.
Yeah, I gotta wear a collar, get inoculated, have that
fleantick stuff put on me and pee outside (usually—and when I don’t hold my
water, it’s not my fault. I’m a little dog, little dogs are usually yappers,
snappers and indoor crappers and I don’t yap, snap or crap in the house, so
2-1/2 outta three AND no “#2”, ain’t bad), no mean task when it’s 5 degrees
outside.
I do some chores, cleaning out my dogfood bowls every day
being one of the more important ones. I also patrol the house, looking for
skwerlz, bobcats, wolverines, polar bears and musk oxen. You know how many of
those guys are in the house? That’s right, Zero, bupkus, nada; and only the
skwerlz stayed in the neighborhood—those little guys are QUIK! I patrol the
neighborhood three times a day, checking for interlopers and thinking dire
thoughts at them (I’m telepathic, too) until they leave the area. I also
volunteer, along with a number of other fellas like myself, to do some informal
ethnobiological research. What, you think alla that sniffin’ is idle curiousity?—oh,
kontrare—we’re gathering data points. It’s just dog pee and poo to you.So,
whattayagot, like, 5,000,000 odor receptors in those puny little schnozzolas of
yours? Well, I got about 20 times that many and my buddy Billybobbloodhound
down the street has like 230,000,000 of ‘em. We don’t just know who left the
“deposit”, we know why, when and what he was eating and drinking. I shouldn’t
be telling you this but when I go the vet he always wants a little “alone time”
with me, so’s I can fill him in on what’s going on in the neighborhood. His
office assistant wants other stuff, things like The Guy’s bank routing and account
numbers—lucky for him, I can’t read.
Sorry—we had to take a little break for me to go out and
romp in the snow (actually, it’s at this time of the year when the danger of
marauding Polar bears is greatest—they blend right in with the snow, but I act
all lighthearted and gay while I scan the snowdrifts for signs of recent Polar
bear activity. The Guy is oblivious; he’s just enjoying his hard bought freedom
from fear, without a care in the world. Today’s a good day, nothing to report)
and now that he’s had his outing, I think that The Guy is ready to do a little
work.
Me, I’m pretty much tuckered out, anyway, from all this work
and my eyes are a little tired from squinting while looking into the sun (the
direction where most polar bear attacks come from) and I think I might need a
little nap.
Ahhh, yeah, here he comes now. A little stretch, roll over,
get my belly scratched, hop up on my bed and look cute. Then, BissssssssssssssCUTZ!
Happy Humanholidaze!! (or as we say in doggerel, “ArfwOOf,
WooFarf!”
Buddy TheWonderdog
Hi and Merry Christmas or whatever holiday you’re currently
celebrating:
Buddy was good enough to help out with the
ChrisKwanukkahFestiNalia letter this year (I was NOT napping—I was THINKING
about all of the things I have yet to do before I go a’visitin’. And, NO, those
were not snores that Buddy was hearing, it was a little mantra I came up with
years ago while in boring classes at CHS).
I’ve been making candied mixed nuts, zaletti (Italian
cornmeal cookies with currants soaked in Marsala), fudge sauce,
banana-blueberry bread and pumpkin ginger bread. But the piece de resistance is
dulce de leche. Five gallons of milk and fifteen pounds of sugar (simmered in
smaller batches) yields about 6 quarts of beautiful, thick, caramel sauce.
Dulce de leche is good on everything, especially a spoon.
I am happy to report that at least HALF of the lovely
Christmas cards I get every year have already arrived. I am sure that the rest
of them will be along as soon as the USPS gets offa its lazy butt and gets to
work—whoops, my bad, Jolene!
This year has been a bit of a challenge, physically. I have
had some issues with my right arm (ganglion cyst on my hand, pronated lunate
process in my wrist, torn bicep and probable tear in rotator cuff). After
several trips to the clinic, some PT and a little bit of that Kellymagic anger
I finally got a cortisone shot in my shoulder (immediate relief) and an MRI
scheduled for 1/06/14. I just got an
oxygen condenser for using while I sleep—not sure that’s gonna work out,
between the noise and the cannula up my nose!—because while the VA says I don’t
have Sleep Apnea, they think I need more O2 at night. If/when they can get a
handle on that stuff, I need a podiatric consult and maybe some new knees and
hips down the road.
In spite of all of the above I’ve walked and biked quite a
bit since June of this year (a virtue born of necessity) and it’s probably a
good thing. Between taking Buddy out for his neighborhood patrols, various
errands and trips to the local Beerdration clinics and debate clubs, I’m
clocking about 15 miles walking or 40 or more on the bike, per week and the
hills here are like the ones on Bancroft and 46th to 48th
Street.
Work on the house proceeds slowly but it proceeds. Buddy’s
water doesn’t freeze in its bowl OR in the toilet. I got me some gummint
pellets this year, 2 tons from HEAP and that will be the bulk of my heating
requirement. I use a pellet stove that keeps the downstairs tolerable and, at
night, a small portable radiator keeps me cozy in my bedroom. Buddy has a nice
couch for warmer nights and new, raised doggy bed about 2 feet from the front
of the stove. He seems to enjoy watching the fire and dreaming about catching
oneathem Polar bears.
Well, I’ve got a new batch of dulce de leche simmering on
the burner and some cookies (not zaletti, these are my special holiday cookies
with about 25 ingredients) to make before I nip next door for a late Chrismas
dinner. My neighbor, the chair of the local SUNY theater department invited me.
She apologized for the fact that her and her boyfriend’s children (1 and 2
kidaloos, respectively) would be there. I told her not to worry, they won’t
beat me to the food. I may have lost a step but, coming from our background, I
wield a pretty mean fork.
Buddy will have been fed, walked and biscuited before I go
and he will spend a few hours listening to Christmas music while visions of
roasted skwerl, stuffed with pepperoni, prosciutto, bacon, sausage, roast beef
plus cheddar, asiago, parmegiano reggiano and manchego cheese dance through
that thimble sized brain of his.
Buddy also has a physical challenge. He’s had a seizure
disorder for some time and it recently ramped up to high frequency and
“cluster” episodes. He’s going in for blood work on Friday and his vet says
that he’s pretty sure (and will know for certain after the blood panels)
whether it’s anything diagnosable or simple idiopathic epilepsy. The only real
treatment (that I can afford) is Phenobarbital twice a day. Several of my
friends have animals who seize and they all treat them with Phenobarbital and
it seems to be effective and relatively benign. Buddy’s a gamer and he’s still
really likin’ the cookies and walks, so he’s gonna wanna stick around for a few
more years—my adoption papers say he’ll be 12 in February, the vet says he
thinks he’s 9. I’ll let you peeps know how it all comes out.
I wish you all, family and friends alike, all of the wonder,
joy and happiness that you can share with those whom you love today and always.
I also wish you success and prosperity in 2014 and the years to come.
Peace and Love from your favorite dope and his “roomie”
Terry and Buddy The Wonderdog.
* Not my real name,
I’m in the Dachsweiler Protection Program. My litter name was Prince Kurzbinder
von Puppenhund—I come from a long line of royal dogs. The DPP thing? Um, it’s got to do with peeing on expensive
shoes and chewing up the boss’s steak (the last one, boss, that is). I had to
“rat out” some chicken killers I knew or spend the rest of a short and
miserable life in a PETA vegan shelter. So “Buddy” it is (“The Wonderdog” was The
Guy’s idea—he’s such a kidder, always saying things like, “Hey, Buddy, don’t
sell yourself short!”). Everybody’s a comedian—so, why ain’t I laffin?
** Hereinafter
referred to as “FBWSBtEG” (Food, Ball, Walk, Scratch Behind the Ear Guy), nah,
that’s too long, too. Let’s just call him, “The Guy”.
*** And those corgis? They think they’re “special” , just
‘cuz they live a queen. I got news for ya, fellas; my forepawfathers were
livin’ with the Kaiser when yours were still peein’ on un-pruned trees—do ya
get my drift?
