April 30, 2015

It was Vern’s idea. He explained that, disastrous consequences aside, Sparky’s attempt to unleash his inner wolf had actually succeeded. When all was said and done—when the tow truck had left and the pizzas were paid for and the neighborhood’s electricity had been restored—there was no denying that our pal had displayed characteristics empirically consistent with those of a wild animal. “Perhaps,” said Vern, as his old eyes tracked the flight pattern of a local crow, “that same commitment can be channeled into something less destructive.” That got me thinking. (Newsflash puppies: Try it sometime.) If Sparky had misunderstood his way into doing something bad, maybe it was possible for him to misunderstand his way into doing something good. I walked across the backyard and sat in front of the sliding glass door to let Mrs. Baxter know I was ready to come inside. She opened it and told me that if I wanted to see Sparky that was okay but that he wasn’t allowed out of his kennel for the time being. I nodded, solemnly, and went to see my pal. “Hi buddy,” said Sparky, “how’s Vern? Tell him I can’t come outside for a little while but that I have big plans for those crows.” Don’t get me started. I assured Sparky the backyard was fine and that, speaking of Vern, we had important news. Sparky sprang up in the kennel. His aft section smacked against the plastic sides uncontrollably. That’s when I explained that it had come to our attention that Sparky, believe it or not, was being considered for possible entry into the elite and highly prestigious International League of Exceptionally Well Behaved Dachshunds. Which reminds me of the time I made up a completely fictitious organization in hopes of bringing out the best in Sparky to thereby prevent Mrs. Baxter from making any hasty decisions regarding his relocation.        

Signed,

Morty  

April 23, 2015

Something about Mr. Fratelli’s car accident, the power outage and Sparky eating one or two pizzas that weren’t technically his had inspired Mrs. Baxter to, suddenly, consider relocating my pal to a more rural environment. Newsflash puppies: things are hardly ever what they seem. At first, when I relayed the rumor, Sparky was thrilled. “The big show! When do we leave?” he asked. Don’t get me started. I explained that I didn’t think that that’s what Mrs. Baxter meant—that she might be talking about sending him away, all by himself, to learn about agriculture. “That’ll never work,” Sparky said. “We’re a team.” I couldn’t argue with that and decided to locate Vern for advice and instruction. We went to the hole in the fence and asked my neighbor what he thought. “This isn’t good,” said Vern, “farms are euphemisms.” Sparky thought euphemisms sounded delicious and asked if he could have his with extra hot sauce. Don’t get me started. I knew better and began thinking about how to make Mrs. Baxter realize that Sparky was utterly, absolutely and completely essential to our organization.  Which reminds me of the time that Vern and I convinced Sparky, for his own good, that he wasn’t a dog anymore but instead a four-legged butler robot.

Signed,

Morty

April 16, 2015

It was all a big misunderstanding. When Vern told Sparky and I about wolves—about how they’re the sole ancestors of modern dogs like us and that therefore every dog has an inner-wolf—he was, of course, speaking figuratively about the fragility of domestication and whatnot. Sparky, however, became convinced that if he got hungry enough, and tried really hard, he would (according to Vern) magically unleash the skilled hunter and apex predator he’d always known was inside of him. Newsflash puppies: You never know until you try. Don’t get me started. Consequences aside, what happened next was a remarkable display of ambition and commitment. That’s how we did things back then. Sparky avoided breakfast by staying in the backyard—instead of eating he practiced lunging, fiercely, at imaginary ungulates. Mrs. Baxter, surprised that my pal didn’t charge inside fifteen minutes early to begin reminding everybody that it was almost time to chow down, didn’t panic right away. But when 11:00 rolled around and Sparky still hadn’t touched his breakfast bowl, she purposely placed some of Mr. Baxter’s leftover tacos on the edge of the counter and pretended they were unattended in hopes Sparky would do what he usually did. But he didn’t. Before I continue, I feel it’s important to remind everybody that low blood sugar can happen to anybody. It’s a phenomenon that transcends species not to mention grit, character, ambition, commitment and the numerous other attributes my pal, under normal circumstances, possessed in spades. Don’t get me started. By lunchtime Sparky had completely lost it. Indeed, he’d become inflexibly certain that only the still-warm flesh of a zebra and/or moose would satisfy his now heightened demand for wild protein. Of course, no one could have predicted that on that particular day the electric company would be performing maintenance on the neighborhood’s power lines. Nor could anyone have predicted that the company’s hardworking men and women would pause in front of the telephone pole across the street from Mrs. Baxter’s house and order two large pizzas from Fratellis for lunch. I suppose it goes without saying that, furthermore, nobody could have anticipated Sparky—in a delirious fit of self-inflicted hunger— smelling the aforementioned pizzas from a block away, wriggling through the hole in the fence and dashing head-on into the street thereby causing the pizza delivery man, Mr. Fratelli, to swerve and crash, at tremendous expense to his automobile insurance provider, into the whole high-voltage operation. Don’t get me started. The first thing Mr. Fratelli did was make sure Sparky was okay. The first thing Sparky did was climb into the backseat of Mr. Fratelli’s car and eat every last slice of pizza, including some of the bag that kept them hot. In the end, nobody got seriously hurt and the neighborhood’s lights came back on the following morning. Which reminds me of the time Mrs. Baxter told me that, even though she loves him very much, Sparky might have to go live on a farm.

Signed,

Morty

April 9, 2015

Long before dogs started blogging, Vern was scribbling his memoirs on the back of half-eaten Frisbees. Don’t get me started. He was, God rest his soul, the smartest dog in the neighborhood. He was also the oldest. Back then, when it came to spending the weekend with Sparky and I, our neighbor was always welcome. Mrs. Baxter loved Vern and Vern loved Mrs. Baxter. It was a relationship built on mutual respect. Mrs. Baxter was organized, which Vern cherished, and Vern was disciplined, which Mrs. Baxter figured (Lord willing and the creek don’t rise) might encourage Sparky to “aspire towards something greater.” News flash puppies: we are who we are. Don’t get me started. For all of his eccentricities—the same quirks local veterinarians called “obvious signs of clinical canine depression”—Vern knew a lot about everything, including history. “Good housekeeping and a punctual breakfast,” he used to say, “is the difference between us and them.” By them, of course, he meant wolves. And it was on that particular weekend that he explained, to Sparky and I, that all dogs were, by his calculations, ten, or less, missed feedings away from resorting back to our most primitive state. Sparky, fascinated with the prospect of becoming a wolf, immediately began fasting. Which reminds me of the time Sparky’s low blood sugar caused a power outage.

Signed,

Morty

April 2, 2015

I nodded, solemnly, to assure Mrs. Baxter that she had nothing to worry about. I continued nodding, solemnly, to let her know that Sparky and I would start preparing for the special occasion immediately. That’s how we did things back then. Footnote puppies: when your boss has something important to say, look her square in the eyes and listen. It makes her feel better. No more of this scatter-brained, tongue-out, jumping-like-you’re-on-a-trampoline frenzy every time the higher-ups have a comment or concern. Pull yourselves together. Don’t get me started. I found my pal in the backyard—he’d been listening to Vern talk about “the absurdity of hope” through the hole in the fence. Sparky, I think, was grateful for the interruption but Vern, who didn’t seem to notice much of anything, just kept talking. Don’t get me started. I relayed the facts to Sparky: special dinner, important people, best behavior. To which my pal replied, “So, like, what are they having for dinner?” I explained, to the best of my ability, that that didn’t really matter; that we were ambassadors for the Baxter’s and that it was our job to assist the guests in whatever way proved most necessary or helpful. Sparky nodded, solemnly. To this day, I’m not sure how Mrs. Baxter’s premonition ended up materializing exactly the way it did. Sparky used to say the incident was nothing more than a classic case of good chicken and bad luck. Don’t get me started. According to my pal, Mr. Baxter’s associates—well-dressed humans, totally fixated on the subject of merging some biscuit maker with some other biscuit maker—were given every opportunity to consume their entrees in a timely, responsible fashion. When they didn’t, Sparky scaled the table and “assisted” them. At that point, Mrs. Baxter, a dancer in her younger years, poured more wine with one hand and produced a jar of aspirin with the other. Sparky, covered in chicken, potatoes and guilt, bid the table adieu. Which reminds me of the time Vern’s people asked Mrs. Baxter if, seeing as they were going out of town for the weekend, Vern could stay at our place until they got back.

Signed,

Morty

March 26, 2015

And that was a crisis that needed to be handled even more delicately than usual because, on that particular day, Mrs. Baxter had a headache. For reasons known only to Mrs. Baxter, whenever she had a headache, Sparky wasn’t allowed inside. It’s worth mentioning that the coincidence never bothered my pal in the least. Back then dogs liked being outside. Don’t get me started. Turns out Sparky had been doing some backyard reconnaissance (on a totally unrelated matter) when, out of nowhere, a squirrel the size of an Irish wolfhound’s head “accidentally” dropped an acorn into our humble-but-adequate water bucket. It was the kerplunk that alerted Sparky to the intrusion, but his justifiable reaction that alerted me to his awareness of it. All hell broke loose which—news flash puppies—is the way hell usually breaks. Don’t get me started. I did my best to assure Mrs. Baxter that there was nothing to worry about—that between the two of us, Sparky and I, the rodent would have better luck establishing permanent residence in a raging bonfire or the cold depths of outer space—but the poor woman was inconsolable and got, in my opinion, uncharacteristically liberal with her jar of aspirin. It goes without saying that what happened next was entirely the rodent’s fault. Sparky and I formed a perimeter around the mighty oak and began, simultaneously, lamenting our physical limitations while sending a commanding message to the squirrel. It was a well-coordinated effort that took hours. That’s how we did things back then. Don’t get me started. Eventually, sometime around sunset, the squirrel had no choice but to realize our commitment to justice and (in a manner that I, to this day, still find irritating) hopped from one branch to another, to a telephone wire, to another tree that happened to be rooted in my good friend Vern’s backyard. Don’t get me started. Vern’s approach was entirely different, which pretty much sums up Vern. Instead of brute force, my neighbor (God rest his soul) engaged the rodent in a short discussion about  “the futility of everything.” In a fraction of the time it had taken Sparky and I to get our point across, Vern had persuaded the squirrel to take its chances on the high-voltage wire betwixt our two properties. Lessons were learned. Which reminds me of the time Mrs. Baxter explained that she was going to have some very important guests over for dinner and asked me to “please, for God’s sake please, do whatever you can to make sure Sparky doesn’t ruin everything.”

Signed,

Morty

March 19, 2015

Which never would have happened if Mr. Baxter hadn’t suggested Mrs. Baxter bring home two pounds of carne asada for another one of their romantic taco nights. I don’t expect generation-squeaky-toy to understand a word I’m saying, but what happened next remains an enduring example of ambition, teamwork and courage in the face of adversity. That’s how we did things back then. Don’t get me started. Let me start by conceding that the exact quantity of marinated meat Mrs. Baxter placed into her fort-knoxian refrigerator that afternoon also remains a mystery, even today. But something about the size of the grocery bag and the way Mrs. Baxter handled it when she got back from the store led Sparky (who studied these matters closely) to determine it was probably much closer to 4, if not 5 pounds in weight and thereby definitely worth the considerable risk Operation: Carpe das Carne posed to both of us. Sparky’s trilingual name for the mission was also his battle cry just prior to things going south which—news flash puppies—is a direction things go with tremendous regularity. Don’t get me started. Did we succeed? No. Were we victims of some unfair cosmic conspiracy? No. Did we ask our vets for Valium? No again. We were two dogs momentarily bested by a cooling device created by a species with thumbs—nothing more, nothing less and certainly nothing to cry about. Extra! Extra! You can’t win them all! Don’t get me started. Look puppies, this racket isn’t about success and failure—that’s human stuff—it’s about getting trounced one second and being ready for anything the next. And if you’re thinking this was the last time Sparky and I attempted to liberate cuisine, Mexican or otherwise, from Mrs. Baxter’s kitchen…then you’re missing the point entirely. Which, now that I think about it, might have been what the late Vern meant when he talked about the “bi-pedalization of K9 culture” and to “mark his words, no good will come of it.” Of course, that’s hard to say because Vern (who often admitted struggling with the fact he was too smart for his own good) said that about a lot of things. In the end, my pal’s tail was only a little worse for wear and we’d learned a series of valuable lessons…mostly regarding the importance of timing and the dangers of speculation. But the following morning Sparky also explained that there’s a fine line between confidence and overconfidence and that it was entirely possible that, maybe, he’d crossed it. Which reminds me of the time he enlisted my help in the forced eviction of a particularly brazen squirrel who’d taken unsanctioned residence in Mrs. Baxter’s favorite oak tree…

Signed,

Morty
March 12, 2015

And that was the time my pal Sparky got away with nabbing Mrs. Baxter’s green bean casserole right off the stove. You should have seen him run. He didn’t even particularly like green beans, but that was Sparky. Don’t get me started. Doubt many pups could pull off a stunt like that these days. Took grit. Character. Reminds me of the time I was in a grocery store parking lot inside a cardboard box with “free puppies” misspelled on the side of it. The year was 1999 or thereabouts. Did I complain? Heck no! I wagged my tail with genuine enthusiasm while one of my brothers pee’d all over the place. That’s how we did things back then. Took grit. Character. So don’t talk to me about finding the right collar to match your leash. Ha! Way I see it you’re lucky to have either one. Stainless steel water bowls, treats handed out for no reason, manicures—this PetCo generation has lost all sight of what it means to work for a living. You wanna know what kept my claws clipped? The unforgiving asphalt as I patrolled my neighborhood looking for punks, that’s what! Don’t get me started. I blame Hollywood, among other things. When I was a pup movies had substance. Air Bud: Seventh Inning Fetch…they don’t make them like that anymore. When that epic went straight to DVD in 2002 I was there, front and center, watching my hero in action. Of course back then we sat upright on the hardwood living room floor, not #pullingchunkies on some goose down whatchamacallit. And you’re damn right I cheered when my hero took the field. Do your homework kiddos, that’s what a real dog looks like. Speaking of real dogs, my good friend Vern (put down last Tuesday, God rest his soul) told me about this dog show in LA where every dog got a blue ribbon—get this—just for showing up! The reason? The judges didn’t want to hurt any of the pwuppies wittle fweelings. Gimme a break! Whatever happened to grit? Character? I could go on but I’ve heard all about the modern puppy’s attention span. It’d be about as productive as chasing my tail—that’s right ‘lil Einsteins, they’re attached! Don’t get me started. Which reminds me of the time my pal Sparky got his tail stuck in Mrs. Baxter’s refrigerator…

Signed,

Morty