she, at work, me, asleep

the duke

the owners have recently become obsessed with the hbo series, 'the wire.' they gobbled up the first four seasons like i gobble kibble. the fourth season examines the urban disaster that is west baltimore from the perspective of the failed school system. the woman took a particular liking to duquan (pronounced doo-kwahn), a pathetic, nearly homeless eighth grader with a good heart who comes to school every day stinking to high heaven. the children ridicule him.

for some reason unbeknownst to me, the woman started calling me duquan. the guy didn't seem into it, until . . .

. . . until our recent trip to magnusson park, a beautiful park on some body of water with an offleash area that includes a rocky stretch of beach. the guy seemed to think it would be funny if they called me by the name duquan, occasionally shortened to dookie, or more simply, the duke.

i overheard the guy say to the woman: "the great thing about having a dog that can't hear is that you can call her anything you like. it won't make a difference!"

the woman agreed.

as we waddled towards the offleash area, we stopped for a moment to chat with a nice russian couple. the russian woman asked my name: "duquan," said the woman. "aahhh, duquan," the russian said, pronouncing my name with a thick french accent. "is that a french name?" "it is," said the guy.

at the offleash area, the owners yelled my name often, to what must have been the befuddlement of the other owners. the owners, ever in their own world, seemed to find the whole thing hilarious.

"awwww, look at that face," a fan of mine cooed. "what's her name?"

"duquan." said the woman. a blank look appeared on the fan's face. she walked off.

the other seventeen people who asked my name offered up the same response-less response upon learning my name. no one even asked where the name came from. i can only imagine the response from the woman: "duquan is a twelve year old smelly homeless boy from one of our favorite tv shows."

my owners are ridiculous.

outtakes from the chrismukkah card

my downward spiral

my path to debauchery began with a wary glance:


then a sniff:


next, the gulping began:


i enter a world of pain. the woman looks on.


then darkness:

i am often used as an arm rest.

i hate going out in the rain.

and i hate this ridiculous rain coat.

a step back

the woman made a discovery the other day while reading darwin's origin of species.

apparently, before dogs became domesticated, their ears used to stand up. an upright ear is better for hearing, thus better for surviving in the wild. under the weight of generations of domestication, ears started to flop.

the woman told this to the guy one evening while we were all sitting on the couch.

the guy stared at me. what now?

"you hear that, chunker? you're a step back on the evolutionary ladder."

"yeah," the woman chimed in. "no evolutionary purpose for those floppy ears."

the guy continued. "you're like an appendix, chunker. a vestigial blob."

they really seemed to like this line of conversation.

"what evolutionary purpose does farting through your nose serve, chunker?"

"what evolutionary purpose does not being able to walk more than a half a mile serve, chunker?"

"what evolutionary purpose does sleeping 20 hours a day serve, chunker?"

"what evolutionary purpose does not being able to crap without getting it all over your leg serve, chunker?"

"you're ridiculous, chunker."

"yeah. and you're vestigial."

part dog . . .

i am developing identity issues. i am too many things: a dog, a seal, a pig, an ottoman, an old south korean man. it's hard to keep track of. for awhile, i convinced myself that maybe these were just nick names, and that i was really a dog. now i'm not so sure.

last week, the owners and i were in a local rite-aid. the woman was getting some pictures developed, the guy was staring off into space, and i was trying to surreptitiously tear open a package of twinkies. my plan was disrupted when a lady saw me and exclaimed, "aren't you the cutest little thing?!" not again. "is he a bulldog?" (no one ever gets my gender right).

"actually, she part bulldog, part pig." the guy said.

huh?

"oh that's nice," the lady replied, looking somewhat confused, and trundled off to buy some twinkies.

"did you just tell that lady that chunker is part pig?" my other owner asked.

"yeah. so." he said.

the woman thought for a moment, then said: "she really is pig-like. i mean, listen to her eat. she's like a pig at a trough. i don't even know how she gets food in her mouth."

"neither do i. and she definitely can't drink. she just exchanges slobber for water, then converts the water to slobber, and gets it all over the couch."

"that's true."

things got worse. we left the store and headed for home. on our way, we past a gaggle of teenagers, who became immediately smitten with me.

"what kinda dog is that?" one asked.

"actually, she a pig." said the woman.

"oh." said britney, and kept walking.

farting in the new year

the woman came back from new york with a gift for the guy. its sole purpose was to torment me. it is a plastic ice cream cone with a nerf ball where the ice cream should be. the nerf ball is attached to the cone by a string. there is a trigger on the cone, which, when you press it, launches the nerf ball.

the guy quickly saw this toy's potential, and began launching the ball at my ass when i was sleeping. naturally, the feeling of a ball striking your ass when you are asleep is enough to startle you. the guy seemed to think this was the funniest thing, and took to launching the ball at my ass every time i got comfortable. "watch this," the guy would whisper to the girl, then sneak up behind me and launch the ball at my ass, only to watch me sit bolt upright. the two laugh hysterically, as i stare at them, clearly not amused.

as always, revenge is mine.

we spent new year's eve at a lookout point with a view of seattle's space needle. given that it is like below zero at night here, we spent the final moments of 2007 in the car with the heat on and the windows up. i was on the guy's lap, trying desperately to stay awake.

the plan came to me abruptly: hot box. no, not that kind of hot box, stoners. as the final seconds of 2007 slipped past, i ripped a wicked fart, right on the guy's leg. "the pig blew us up!" the woman announced, her sense of smell being slightly more acute than the guy's.

those were her last words of 2007.

"holy shit, chunker, that's disgusting!"

those were his first words of 2008.

happy new year.