Monday Bloody Monday

Expected topic? Yeah, I know. Then why does it annoy me every week. Just when you think a Monday may hold a little promise and then, zip-zero, nyet. Well there you have it. Onward to Tuesday. Maybe I'm still a little mad that I dreamed of brown recluse spiders all night long. What an itchy rip-off. Which reminds me...

On to a more interesting and satisfying topic: A Picture of My Dog.



Meet Otis, the world's sweetest mutation. He is known by many names. Tardo, Ree-Ree, "O Tardia" (to the tune of "O Canada" of course), and Aaagh!!-Get-Off-My-FOOT-you-@#$%, to name a few.

He is half Black Labradore and half Bassett Hound. I don't know whether to call him a Bassadore or a Labrahound. He just looks like a Black lab constantly standing in a hole. Like Bjork, he's short but strong.

When we walk down the street (or rather, when I'm pulled helplessly down the street, urged on by the possibility of a dislocated shoulder), people in passing cars either laugh, point and stare, or remain expressionless and faced-forward, yet squinting from the corner of an eye for a guilty peek. There's no in-between. Passers-by on the street usually grin like confused 5 year-olds and exclaim "Awwwwwww..... what IS he?!"

And if that person is over 5'11" and a male, then Otis will clumsily launch a spitty bark-attack and unleash the Black Fury on them. At this point, I usually die of embarrassment as he skiis me across the gravel. But it's apparent that some tall man beat the daylights out of Otis with a cast-iron skillet because he is terrified of tall men. Which doesn't sound unreasonable sometimes (it's a joke) but also reminds me of that time when the 6'2" woman came down at Otis to pet him. And Otis, as did I, mistook her for John Lithgow with a wig. Otis mulched the ground beneath him as I dragged him a safe distance away, and watched as the ladyman tripped quickly yet safely through the daffodils to escape.

Yes, Otis is a big, black, freight-train mutation who wandered lost into the front yard of Ron's life. And much like me, Ron decided to load him up in the car and take him home.

Why-o-why couldn't Otis have been a gerbil instead. Gerbils don't shed bales of hair all over like a two-month old Christmas tree. In three annoying lengths, and all over my white-tiled apartment. I have never lived under a roof with a dog the size of a goat, and never planned to do it. But dammit, this dog has a heart as big as my mean old Aunt Martha Ann's butt. And anything that big that is hard to overlook. Plus, unlike truly-mean Martha Ann, he has no smell whatsoever.

So where is he now? He's at home, crammed under Ron's desk and on Ron's feet probably. Wishing he could chew up a catfood can or have another hotdog. He doesn't ever care it's Monday because every morning is Christmas Day all over again. And he makes me forget it's Monday every week. Aww.

Except for the part about the tall man and the cast iron skillet, I wouldn't mind being Otis.

I tried to get his picture in the paper this past Sunday, but a white poodle in a red dress got published instead. Not that I'm biased or anything, but you tell me: From just looking at this photo, do you get a whiff of that lingering mothball smell, too?*

(*Aww, that was mean. Mean because it's true.)



And this just in from My Favorite Client, Mr. "Sloppy Joe" Valentino of Oak Ridge, Tennessee:

message from Joe:

amzanig huh?

>Aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it deosn't mttaer in
>waht oredr the ltteers in a wrod are, the olny iprmoetnt tihng is taht
>the frist and lsat ltteer be at the rghit pclae.
>The rset can be a total mses and you can sitll raed it wouthit porbelm.
>Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef,
>but the wrod as a wlohe.