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Who let the dogs out? It was me.

Dogs really know how to show pleasure. They get all excited and stuff and it just makes me happy for them… to know that one being can put so much energy into anticipation.

Today, I sat behind a lady in a McDonald’s drive thru who got a Big Mac extra value meal for herself and three happy meals for her three Chow Chows in the car along with her.

No, I don’t live near Turkey Hill and it was not Martha Stewart in the car. I doubt that The Martha does not allow such plebian fair to pass over the mottled shaggy lips of her canine status symbols. I’m certain that they dine on fresh Uni from the shores of Maine and braised tongue from a kosher deli on 45th in Manhattan.

Ironically, I was on my way to let Ward and June’s doggies out to do their squatting and sniffing. Ward and June are out of town today, so we have dog watcher duty. I actually love to go and let the dogs out. Mercedes and Miata love to see me. I always make my excited voice for them, calling them “My little Furred Monsters!” I trot them out the door and wait for them to do their duties. Miata is a diva and wants to be let back in the house immediately. Mercedes is a terrier and longs to be able to go on 16 hour scouting maneuvers of the backyard. I’ve seen her kill rabbits and sparrows with lightning fast precision. You’d never know she was a cold-blooded killer, considering the lovely kisses she gives.

I finally coaxed them back into the house and tried to give them a treat, as I was leaving and I needed a diversion to get myself out the door without inducing their whines. I tried talking up the treat, giving it lots of P.R, and they were buying it. Until I tossed them each a Milk-Bone.

They both looked up at me as if to say “This?????!?! This is it??!?!?! You freak, you were marking this up like we’d get prime rib or maybe a nice dead skunk to roll in!!!'”

It’s a good thing that they have short memories, or I’d lose their respect.

Once upon a time, three months before I graduated from college and spent a summer in England, my cush job at the Homeless Shelter got eliminated. That sucked. It sucked especially because I had to find a part time job for only three months, and then I’d be gone. That really sucked.

So I got a job at a bank. I was supposed to be some kind of personal banker, but I was “starting out” as a teller (read: they couldn’t get anyone to apply for the teller position, so they dangled the carrot of “personal banker” out there and watched who bit).

Anyway, I was working a drive through lane (which I always loved, because I didn’t have to talk to any of my hateful, disapproving co-tellers) and this guy drove up with a dog in the car. I knew the drill. Do whatever transaction the guy needed and also hand him a doggie bone.

But he had different request.

He leaned over and whispered into the speaker, hiding his mouth, as if his dog could understand, or possibly read his lips.

“Er… Barkley here is supposed to be eating these treat things from his vet… they have medicine in them…. er… but he won’t eat them…. um, so I was hoping that I could send it through and then maybe you could show it to him over there and then maybe he’d want to eat it when it came back?”

I tried not to chuckle. He sent the little doggie biscuit through the little vaccuum tube.

I then proceeded to talk up this doggie bone like it was going to offer the best damn doggie orgasm that the bank had to offer. My voice escalated from baby talk to doggie talk to what I can only describe as the language that dolphins use to communicate.

Let me tell you. I worked that doggie biscuit. I worked that biscuit like a big Pimp Doggie. I wiggled it from the window. I dramatically put it back into the carrier.

Barkley was almost attacking the carrier when it got to him. I thought he would urinate on the seat. His owner removed the treat and

Barkley inhaled it.. and a horrible look passed over his face…. a look of disception… a look of a discovered deceit. He looked at me and I felt that I had sinned the biggest transgression in my life.

Ptew. Out popped the veterinarian-prescribed doggie treat.

The owner looked up at me, shrugged, and drove away. I stood in front of the drive thru window, crestfallen.

I had just acted my heart out. It was a Canine Academy award type performance. And it was spit out on the seat of a shabby BMW by a dog named Barkley.

Anyway, I got the same look tonight.

This is why I have cats. They trust no one.

Thanks to everyone who participated in the discussion on the message boards. Still looking for points of view on the topic, so head on over and discuss/reply. I took away the annoying “Articles” button, but if navigation is still a pain in the ass, let me know and I can change it.

Also, how sweet is Scott who sent me a lovely letter asking if it bothered me that he reads this page and asking I’d rather that he not? God, I just love Scott! He’s so awesome. If you were wondering (and this is what I told him), I’ve only censored myself when I broke my own rule of not saying anything in here that I wouldn’t say to someone’s face. And that was my own fault.

Not that I’d call my Grandmother a Mafia Grandmother to her face. Nor would my Aunt Brumhilda like the fact that I discussed the starvation of her children. But cest la vie. They’re not on the internet, so I’m not going to worry about it.

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