Good Thing He's Cute

After spending the morning staring at the computer screen at work, wondering, "What the hell is it I do I here?" I'm back home. And staring at the computer screen.

My faithful greyhound enters the office, walking carefully over the saltillo tiles. He makes it to the area rug, sighs in relief, and plops down next to my chair.

"Now this is nice," I think. "Exactly why I have a dog. Companionship."

A few seconds later he starts farting. Big dog. Big, fetid, meaty farts.

I grab a sketchpad and wave it around to clear the air every time he lets one fly. After about a dozen repetitions of this, Mr. Sensitive gets offended and leaves.

He doesn't, however, have the good grace to takes the stench with him.

Greyhounds are better seen than smelled.

Curb Your Human

You know the scenario. It's a lovely day and you're out for a walk with your family. You, your husband/wife/partner, the family dog (leashed) and your adorable offspring.

As you round a corner, you spot another person approaching. Like you, this person is out walking the dog. Well, sort of.

Fido is off the leash and his Idiot Owner makes no attempt to call him and put him on a leash. Instead, just as Fido spots you and rushes toward you in a flurry of snarls and bared teeth, Idiot Owner says ...

Guess.

Come on, it's easy.


Yeah. You got it.


"Don't worry. He's friendly." (Famous last words of every irresponsible dog owner.)

Translation, "You better pray he's friendly since I have neither the desire nor the ability to control Fido."

So now Fido has you and your terrorized family backed up to the edge of a cliff. Mr. Friendly is doing an Oscar-worthy impression of Cujo, snapping, snarling and white spittle flying from his mouth.

And Idiot Owner, who is very slowly approaching, unconcerned, says, "He's just saying, 'Hello.'"

Translation: "If you don't move, he won't bite."

At which point, Fido lunges and jumps on you, your partner, and your children and then starts a fight with your dog.

Idiot Owner finally arrives and drags Fido away just before he starts gnawing on your leg like it's a steak bone. Idiot then says, with a suspicious frown at your bloodied family that suggests the altercation is the victims' fault, "Well, gosh, he's never done that before."

Translation: "He's never drawn blood before."

Remember back in the day, when people would complain about ill behaved children? Back when rotten parents would let their kids run amuck in restaurants and movie theaters.

A fortunate side effect of "stranger danger," is that nowadays, most parents won't let their kids out of the house without an armed escort, so unruly children in public places are a thing of the past. (The unfortunate side effect is that kids nowadays don't have much of a childhood, since fun activities like riding your bike in the neighborhood aren't allowed.)

The rotten parents/children of yesterday are today's irresponsible dog owners and their pets.

(A very large stick is now a requirement for the greyhound's daily walk. Funny thing is that just the sight of the stick, especially if I give it a casual, but slightly threatening twirl, is enough to encourage Idiot Owner to leash Fido.)

Turn up Your Miracle Ear

Five o’clock and my husband has just gotten home, grocery bags in hand. The greyhound is leaping and jumping in goofy paroxysms of joy. Glad my husband is home, and really glad about the groceries. Everything and anything we bring home must be for the greyhound. It just as to be.

I wander out of the office and my husband says, “I see the greyhound has found the bag of snakes.”

Eh? “He found what? Snakes?”

Husband continues on into the kitchen, giddy greyhound prancing at his heals. “I see the greyhound has found the bag of stakes.”

I’m standing in the living room, looking stupid, an expression which is effortless.

Stakes? As in garden? Or have we been beset with vampires?

And then, palm slap to forehead, “D’oh. Steaks, steaks.”

I’m either going deaf or senile.

The Greyhound's New Vocation

So I'm standing in front of my rose bushes, intent on pruning, and, as usual, having no fracking idea how to proceed.

I've been gardening pretty much all my life. Although, granted, my earliest efforts probably consisted more of consuming dirt than actually planting stuff in it. But when it comes to gardening in the desert southwest, my wee brain holds an encyclopedia of know-how.

But when it comes to pruning roses, I'm utterly flummoxed.

The greyhound, a retired racer, doesn't share my lack of confidence regarding the proper shape of roses. When I turned my back, he "helped" by grabbing an entire branch and tearing it off the bush.

When I pull weeds, he also assists by grabbing any nearby plant and yanking it out of the ground, even if it isn't a weed.

Racing didn't work out (one race; dead last), so it looks like the hound now has his sights set on gardening.