Is Your Dog A Relative?

We live in a pet-centric world. For $50,000 dollars you can clone Buster so he’ll keep coming back to you. That’s probably the only way he’ll come back to you, because he’s figured out how to ignore you and turn a deaf ear to your commands.

Have you noticed the progression we’ve taken as a society with our pets?

They started out in the backyard. Some of them were actually working dogs. They earned their bowl of scraps herding sheep or cows. Or went hunting for birds with you.

Then they migrated to the back porch. Still looking in, but getting closer.

Eventually your wife gave in to Roxie’s begging eyes and let her inside your kitchen, then your bedroom was next, and now she’s sleeping on your bed.

The veterinary industry is keenly aware of this trend and has marketed it to the hilt.

Dogs and cats are not animals anymore. They’re hairy people. And because they’re relatives with fur, you’ll spend your last dollar on them. The vets are counting on it.

If Buster needs an MRI or a hip replacement, you’re made to feel guilty if you say no.

What about teeth cleaning, pedicures and doggie furdos? Any conscientious owner would of course make regular appointments for these. If you don’t, you’re the beast, not Tabitha, the cat.

I’m convinced this ridiculousness began with the pet food industry. They convinced us our animals should not eat human food because it’s bad for them, so as a substitute they produced good, wholesome, nutritionally well-balanced sawdust with flavorings. If last night’s leftovers are not safe for our pooches, then why are we eating them?

The more advanced we are in the medical industry, the more these tests trickle down to our vets to use on our animals. What’s good for Fred is good for Fido, too.

And of course since Fred now can live to be 100, he wants Fido by his side, too – at a spry 700 years old.

Calvin says, “Ouch! A little too close to home. Of course I want to carry on sniffing and peeing and chasing rabbits. Don’t you?”


Making Music

I called my friend today. She said she was having jaw problems. She said she was out of pain, but her jaw was still clicking.

“Isn’t that what it’s supposed to do?” I asked.

“Every word I say, I hear a click afterward, like a flamenco dancer’s castanet inside my head.”

“Can you make music with it?” I said.

“No, and besides I have a nodule under my right earlobe the size of a large pea that’s not going away,” she said.

“I didn’t know peas came in large sizes,” I said.

“They don’t, but mine does,” she said.

“Does it hurt?”

“No,” she said.

“Can you pop it like bubble wrap?”


“Then color it and have some fun with it,” I said.

“That’s a good idea, sorta like an earring, except a little farther down,” she said.

“I still can’t gain weight. My friends tell me there’s something wrong. I don’t know. I eat like a horse,” she said.

“You just can’t please anybody anymore. Thanks Hollywood. Those image-busters have ruined it for us. If you’re too thin, you’re not hot, if you’re too fat, you’re invisible. And if you’re just right, there are no real men out there to appreciate it anyway,” I said.

My friend laughed. “I’ve got to go now. I’m clicking, I mean shopping for face paint for my pea.”

She clicked and was gone.

Calvin says, “The day my jaw clicks my reputation as a fierce hunter is over. The rabbits would roll over laughing.”