There are no bad owners, only bad dogs


Look what I found!

I am, as they say, in a mood today.

On Friday, I came up with a fabulous idea about a research study that would help this new product have some credibility. "Nope," was the response I got. "No one cares if it REALLY works or not. They'll believe whatever we tell them."

OK. I thought we weren't supposed to just make stuff up, but I was quite wrong.

So to cheer myself up, here's a Katy story:

Part of the reason that I am such a Katy-whore is her completely generic appearance. Imagine that Cecil B. DeMille is on the set of some grand production and suddenly decides that a dog will make the whole thing really come together. He yells to the prop man, "Bring me a dog!"

The prop man comes back with a poodle.

"No!" DeMille shouts. "Bring me a mutt! Something scrappy!"

If the prop man brought him Katy, he'd yell, "Now that's what I call a mutt! Get her agent on the phone!"

Then he might ask, "Why is there a piece of a plastic grocery bag hanging out of her ass?"

Because sometimes she eats bags.

One evening last year the Greggers and I had settled onto the couch with a big plate of nachos and we were watching something. Do you know of those Lippizaner stallions that do the horse dancing? Have you ever seen them prance? Katy came prancing like a Lippizan into the living room carrying a bag of grated cheese that had been left on the counter after the nacho preparation. Prance, prance, fling! She was so proud of herself.

We used to take the dogs down to the baseball fields every weekend to let them run off some energy. Before the Buster era, it was just Katy and Trudy. We chose baseball fields because they are partially fenced-in, making few opportunities for a creature with a brain the size of a walnut to make a break for "freedom." The baseball fields also abutted the train tracks.

One afternoon as we were frolicking, I heard the ding-ding-ding of the crossing warning signaling the arrival of a train. Katy and Trudy were right there next to us, but I hung onto Trudy's collar because she's not too bright. I did not choose wisely.

As soon as the train got near us, Katy looked at me and Greg, a thought bubble came out of her head that said "Scary monster! I'm outta here!" She took off like a rocket, with Greg after her.

I took Trudy to the car, started it, and went to pick up the huffing and puffing Greg. The last thing he saw of her was her ass heading down a busy street.

We were at an intersection, so I drove up and down both ways about a mile. No sign of Katy.

We headed back to the baseball fields, hoping that she would return also. She was almost at the baseball fields -- she'd found a picnic on the way and was begging for hot dogs from people.

From then on, every time I heard the ding-ding-ding, I dove for Katy and tackled her to keep her from running from the scary, loud monster.

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