Display by Label: Honey

Most of the time, Honey does not eat shit. She will always stay clear of her own, and even though she is usually curious about the excreta of other dogs, she generally refrains from putting any of it in her mouth. I'm not sure how to properly explain my relief about this. Pride? I'm proud she doesn't eat dog shit? Normally, you'd be proud of the things your dog does well. Like "roll over" or "stay." It's a feeling built upon affirmation of a job well done, not on not doing the thing that never, ever—no really, never—should be done in the first place. You should not have to feel pride when the animal you love and care for—and who, incidentally, licks your ears lovingly when you're driving in the truck together—does not eat dookie.

Sometimes though, in moments of weakness I suppose, Honey will rub her face and neck in the feces of other dogs, as she did this morning while we were walking in the park near my house. A beautiful, wet morning. A light mist falling. Hardly any people around. Just the green grass growing. And the pond, still and somber. So peaceful. One minute we're standing there, watching the ducks float gently across the water. The next, she's on the ground, rubbing her neck in poop. So unexpected. So very wrong and upsetting.

And how to express the deep sense of revulsion and horror I feel at moments like this? Disappointment? I'm disappointed in you, Honey, for rubbing your neck in dog feces. Oh, but it's so much more than that, really. Confusion? I'm deeply confused, befuddled even, as to why you would do this neck-rubbing-in-shit business. This gets to the crux of it, I suppose, but lacks that flash of anger that accompanies it. Piqued? Irked? Vexed? Almost there.

Enraged—ah, this might be what I'm looking for. Especially when, later, after removing her collar, I end up with the coffee-colored caca on my hand. Nothing to wipe it on. And still needing to drive home. Yes, rage comes very close to what I felt at that moment. But I'm so rarely enraged by anything, really. And I'd hate to be guilty of exaggeration or overstating the truth.

Sometimes it's so difficult expressing my emotions.

link to this | comments (2) | File:  Honey 

It's not news to some of you that I have a little bit of a guilt complex. Okay, maybe it's not so little. Maybe it's more like a "compound." But I swear, it began as this cute little bungalow, which I built just for me and a few low-maintenance house plants. But I've since added a couple of rooms, a pool (jacuzzi) and a walk-in beer cooler. It's actually quite spacious now. I even have room for several guests, in case you're interested. I wish I could explain why I ever built it in the first place. I mean, I'm not Catholic. Or Jewish. So I can't blame religion, or overbearing mothers. I'm sure I could probably come up with some kind of answer after a few dozen hours of therapy. But who has time for that mess? There's no denying that it exists, though. You only have to look as far as last week's post to see it. Sometimes it ain't so purty, is it?

One of the side-effects of a guilt like mine is I'm terrible around cops. Actually, that's not true. I'm not that bad, really. At least I don't think I am. I can fake an expression of innocence, when needed. But what's funny about that—if funny is the word to describe it—is that (most of the time) I'm guilty of absolutely nothing. Nothing that I'm aware of, at least. But the weird thing about cops is, they always seem to know something about me I don't. And damnit-all if I don't believe them every time.

If I'm confronted by a cop (or even a mall security guard) my first instinct isn't to smile and say "hello." Instead, it's to avert my eyes and say, "Nothing, I know nothing." But I've found that unwarranted declarations of innocence tend to raise more suspicion than they quell. So instead, what I try to do is just breath deep, think innocent thoughts, and speak as little as possible.

This is harder than you think. Because as soon as you try to think innocent thoughts, the first thing that pops into your head is something like late-night bong hits in college. Or cowgirl porn. (Always with the cowgirl porn.) I have some mental tricks to get me past those thoughts and bring me right to the church pew on Sunday morning. That way, on the outside, I'm cool as a cucumber. I'm just itemizing in my mind all the ways I am completely, gloriously...innocent. Meanwhile, on the inside, I'm only one stray pornographic cucumber image away from completely crumbling.

It makes the heart race. It really does. You should try it.

Yesterday morning, Honey and I were the only ones at the dog park. Actually, more than that, we were the only ones in that entire section of the Reservation, of which the dog park is only a small portion. No parked cars. No people. And, for some inexplicable reason, I was already feeling guilty about this. (I don't know...I've mostly stopped asking myself "why" to these things. I just roll with it.)

The reason for the park's emptiness actually had nothing to do with me, and everything to do with the fact that it was raining. And it wasn't just a drizzle, either. It was a full-on, unapologetic downpour.

I guess most people change up their routines for things like "inclement weather." I'm not one of those people, though. I am a slave to my routine. Lucky for my dog, it's a trait she and I have in common. But what I've learned over time is, it's something that might annoy you if you were married to me, especially if you were the type of person with a general disdain for routines and who, outside of your obligations to work, etc, basically went about your day doing whatever happened to strike your fancy, and eating whatever you happened to feel like at the moment you felt like it instead of, say, planning it ahead of time. You might also be the type of person who just put your shoes on, sometimes the left foot first and sometimes the right foot first, all chaotic-like. If you were that type of person, and you were married to me, you might be a little annoyed by my penchant for...routine. But I'm just speaking hypothetically. Because there's really no way I could know something like that.

Now that I think of it, the main reason I was already feeling guilty was that, on the way to the dog park, a cop in an SUV had put on his blue and reds behind me. I slowed down, preparing to confess everything—it was just a few times, maybe a dozen, okay? and I swear, it wasn't my bong, and I never sold any. And look, about the cowgirl porn, I like girls in shit-kickers and straw hats. There's nothing illegal about that, is there?—but he just passed by me on the left. A narrow escape.

I had pretty much resumed my normal breathing rate by the time Honey had done her business at the park. She and I were playing catch in one of the fenced-in areas. Then I saw what seemed to be the same SUV that had passed me earlier driving by in the parking lot, and he slowed down as he passed my truck. Holy crap! He's running my plates!

The SUV drove off. But then another one drove by. And another. All with the blue and reds. The bastards were calling in reinforcements. They had me surrounded, by God!

The key here, was to remain calm. And rational. Like MacGyver. As you can surely tell, I'm good at this. I put Honey on her leash and we left the fenced area and went out to where my truck was parked. I could see two cop cars pulled up alongside each other further on down the road. Probably talking about me. For some reason, it seemed like getting in my truck and leaving right then might arouse more suspicion. So instead, after lurking around my truck for several seconds, and opening the door and pretending to take something out of my center console. I took Honey by the leash and lead her down the road. In the rain. Directly toward the cop cars. Right hand in my pocket. Hood up over my head. Proud of myself, because this was definitely less suspicious.

I had only walked a couple of steps before the cops dispersed and drove off in opposite directions. Then, there was nothing for a few minutes. Eerie silence. Just me, Honey, and the rain. We walked for several minutes like this, man and dog through puddles and drips. Then all at once, several SUVs roared past. Some had "K9 Unit" displayed on the outside. One clearly said "Bomb Disposal Unit." As each car drove by me, I would look directly at the person driving from under the hood of my coat, all nonchalant, you know. Like "What's up, brother?"

I had my canned response ready, too, just in case they stopped to ask me what I was doing here. I'd say: "Look I'm just a normal guy with a dog walking in the rain at the dog park." I realize now that this is probably the most suspicious thing I could possibly have said. I think if I had actually uttered these words, I would probably be scribbling this onto a roll of toilet paper at the Essex County Jail instead of onto my keyboard. But they seemed like good words at the time. They always do.

Luckily, speaking turned out to be unnecessary, and as I walked back down the road toward my truck, I saw that I was no longer alone—two other dog-park regulars had arrived and were walking toward me. Thank God! Witnesses! I couldn't remember their names. I only knew the two women by their two dogs' names: Milo and ... okay, strike that, I only knew them by one of their two dogs' names.

I waved to the owners of Milo and the other dog and they waved back and as we got within speaking distance one of them said, "What's going on up here?!"

"I don't know!" I said. "But it's really freaking me out. I'm getting a little paranoid." I decided not to mention the bong hits. Or the cowgirl porn.

"I'm sure they're obligated to tell us if there is some kind of danger, doncha think?" said one of Milo's owners.

And that's when it hit me: these two weren't concerned about the cops coming after them. They were concerned for their own safety. Because there might actually be some other dangerous person out here who these cops really were after, somebody who might be truly guilty of something other than smoking a few bowls in college and watching the occasional cowgirl porn flick. This must be what normal people feel like. I tried to think what a normal person might say and came up with: "Well...yeah! You'd think so, right?"

We shook our heads and talked some more about what it could be. We even tried to stop one of the cops and ask him, but he just drove on past. These guys weren't interested in talking. Eventually, Milo's owners went off in the direction I had come from and I walked with Honey back to my truck.

I never did find out what was going on so I can't report to ya'll with any certainty on what it was all about. I do know this, however: Nobody followed me out of the park or to my house. I'm quite sure of this because I checked my rear-view mirror repeatedly, and took a route that was out of my way and in the opposite direction from my house so I could double back on myself and check.

Rational, people. Like MacGyver.

link to this | comments (8) | File:  NJ  Ho_Hum  Honey 

"I think I'll get Honey another one of those bones for this weekend."

"I don't know ... looks like she's still got some mileage on that one."

"Yeah, but it would probably be good to get her another one anyway, you know."

"No ... I don't. Why?"

"I don't know ... it just would."

"You just like buying her things."

"No ... it's just I think ... they've got expiration dates, those things."

"Bones?"

"Yeah. If they don't, they should. Shit ain't fresh."

"Jesus."

"She needs a new one, that's all."

"Do you even realize it's my birthday tomorrow?"

link to this | comments (2) | File:  TheLine  Honey  Cath 

In all the places C and I have lived before New Jersey, I've always been aware that our neighbors could potentially hear us. And I'm not just referring to during the, you know ... play times. I'm talking about during casual conversations. Fully clothed. Just talking about things like tea. Or grits. Or the Tao of JD in Scrubs.

In our DC apartment, the walls were actually quite good and thick. But I always knew that if I would call out to C from the bathroom asking "Honey, could you bring me a roll of toilet paper?" and she would call back from the living room saying "We're out!" and I would call back to her saying "Okay, well, could you bring me the Andy Warhol t-shirt, then?"—well, I could be fairly certain that all our neighbors had been privy to that exchange, and not just the neighbors who lived on our floor but those above and below us, as well. And if there were people in the hallway, we wouldn't even need to have been speaking loudly for them to catch it. People could pick up everything out there, because every little sound travelled through our door and echoed up and down the hallway, getting amplified as it went. This is why I would pray for empty hallways after any night of hard drinking or extra spicy Thai food.

After we moved out of that apartment and began our brief stint in Baltimore, I became acutely aware of just how thin our 1910-era brownstone walls were when I started hearing strange grunts and growls bellowing forth through my neighbor's wall each night. And he would shuffle up and down his upstairs hallway like he was dragging a dead carcass around with him. I'm still 99% sure he was not a werewolf. Though he did kill a cat once, so ... who knows.

Who, indeed? But when I say I was constantly aware that our neighbors could hear us in these places we used to live, your take-away might be that I was paranoid or that it bothered me in some way. But this wasn't the case at all. In fact, it made me feel closer to my neighbors, and I liked that. I appreciated the fact that they knew intimate things about me, some of which my best friends didn't even know. And when I'd run into them in the lobby and we'd shoot the shit about the weather or the sink hole in the front yard, I knew there was this unspoken dialogue going on between us and that their end of it went something like this: I am aware that sometimes you play "Whiskey River" on repeat one while soaking yourself in a tub full of mayonnaise. And while I don't understand it, I am okay with it. You are my neighbor and I accept you unconditionally. As long as you're not hurting anybody, we're good. You can't imagine how freeing it is for people who are otherwise strangers to you to know all your dirty little secrets and yet accept you so completely. The bond you feel with these people, it's unparalleled. And it's something I just don't feel with my current neighbors and our twenty-five feet of space between our houses.

But I should reiterate that even though all this intimacy didn't necessarily bother me, it was something I was always keenly aware of, and I operated under that awareness at all times. And so I would calculate what I should let them know about me and what I shouldn't. Like: is it wise for people to know I like a little Eminem now and again? Maybe not. Maybe it's better, therefore, not to belt out the lyrics to a song like "Criminal" while cleaning the apartment:


The assonance and consonance on his verses, man. Goose bumps. And it's also some fun shit to recite while vacuuming. Try it. You'll see. It's hard to resist. But as tempting as it always was to spout those lines out loudly in our apartment, I never did. And while I might dance and gesticulate with the recklessness and the fury—and I might even do it naked in nothing but a sock, all Flea-like—I would always make sure to keep vocal dynamics to nothing more than a hoarse whisper.

I think this has made me somewhat frustrated over the years—not being able to fully let go and just yell and scream every once in a while. When we lived in Dallas, I could at least get my loud voice out on my drives to and from work. Big D's roads and highways are just loaded with people yelling at the top of their lungs from the perceived sound-proof confines of their SUVs and sports cars. But when we moved to DC, I stopped driving and started walking most places. I became one of the many robots with white headphones in my ears, silent on the outside, but a whole world of noise going on inside. And even though in a city like DC, I needn't have been shy about singing out loud while I walked down K Street or 7th, the drugs I took weren't hard enough to make me feel comfortable with that sort of thing. So my big rock-star voice got relegated to the four walls of my brain studio.

But here's the crux of this thing: since moving to the Jersey burbs and having—for the first time—a detached house AND—for the second time—a truck, all this quiet voice crap has gone out the proverbial window. During the many hours I've spent painting our walls, I've assisted dozens of artists, from Jeff Tweedy to Tom Waits to Dave Matthews. And yes, Eminem. And my truck might as well have a "Recording" light on it. God, I've laid down some tracks in there, brother.

But the other day, something made me take pause. I was outside waiting on Honey to finish up a poop and I heard quite clearly the sound of a baby crying from our neighbor's house. Now, if I had been right up on my neighbor's property line that would have been one thing. But I was about as far away from his house as I could get.

Wow, I thought. That baby's pretty loud. I wonder ...

Then, the other day I was walking down the street with Honey and I could hear a voice from inside a house calling out to somebody else to pick up the goddamned phone.

Hmmm...

That's when it dawned on me: a detached house does not a sound-proof oasis make. If somebody's walking by our house, they can probably hear me. Perhaps I need to rethink things.

Perhaps, indeed. I guess what really bothers me isn't the singing. What I'm really beginning to question is the wisdom of naming our dog Honey. Because C and I have taught her certain things—certain commands. And sometimes I will toss one of those suckers at her just all spontaneous-like. And sometimes the voice I'll use to do it will be quite loud. And maybe—to the outside listener—it would sound a little odd, these commands I'm making. Maybe odd isn't the right word. Maybe kinky is a better word. Like when I say "Honey! Go to your bed! Now! Oh, that's a good girl. She's my good girl. My Honey-Bunny." Or when I'm teaching her the concepts of "take" and "give" and I say something like, "Honey, take the bone! Yes! Good girl. Now give it to Daddy! Come on, Honey. That's it! Give it to Daddy! There you go! Yes!"

Yeah, I'm thinking "Honey" might have been an unfortunate name for our dog.

And maybe this is why I keep getting winks and knowing glances from that lady who does her morning walks down our street.

link to this | comments (4) | File:  Ho_Hum  House  Honey 

Right now, I have several pairs of wearable jeans. But not one of them is my favorite. My favorites all have big holes in them. And that leaves me with no old standby to wear to anything that isn't a Poison concert or my monthly Grunge Club social. Even then, it's really just too cold to wear these swathes of denim. So instead, I wear one of The Others.

The Others are okay, but they ain't my favorites. They've survived this long because they're not. Something about them doesn't set quite right with my ass. And my ass objects to this.

There is still one pair, though. A little high in the ankles, but good for the house. Speckled with paint and dried things I can't discern. In these, I do the dishes with headphones on. For some reason, this activity helps me focus. I need more things in my life to help me focus. Because I'm horribly unfocused these days.

Smoking is another activity that used to help me focus. I think because it helped me remember I was going to die. And made now seem more urgent. This was always a double-edged sword for me. I don't smoke anymore. And now never seems very urgent.

My todo list has fifteen items on it. I have to add "read [insert title of current book I'm reading here]" as a todo item. Otherwise, I won't do it.

Writing is not on my todo list, because I will do that whether I put it there or not. But methinks I should add it to the todo list. That way, after I've done it, I'll feel something other than blinding futility.

Blinding Futility would be a good name for a rock band. Much better than Poison.

Last week, I remembered that I could delegate things. And this made me happy. And optimistic.

Optimism has been elusive lately. She hides in shady back alleys. And cavorts with men much tougher than me. Men who probably own several pairs of favorite jeans. All of which probably set right with their asses.

For the most part, I've stopped frequenting shady back alleys. Because I no longer carry a shank. Which is sort of tragic, really. I have been known to carry a flask, though. And I guess that's something.

Before going to bed, Honey will often set her bone on an object of mine—a book on the floor by the bed, or a shoe, or a sock. I'm not sure what it means, but I like to think it's got something to do with love. Last night, she dropped it on a pair of my jeans. She probably didn't know or care that they weren't my favorites.

link to this | comments (4) | File:  Writing  Honey  Chewing 

"What is it? Do I stink?"

"Kinda like dog."

"Cool. Honey and I have bonded in smell."

"Hmm."

"What?"

"The thing is, Baby...she doesn't smell like you. It's not a two-way street."

link to this | comments (1) | File:  TheLine  Honey  Cath 

Late at night, when I'm in my office and only the halogen arm lamp above me is on, Honey will sometimes catch a glimpse of my reflection in the sliding glass doors and she'll start barking her deep burglar-alarm bark. I'll assure her that it's only me, but she keeps at it, the hair standing up on her back, until I can finally snap her attention away from the reflection and show her that look, I'm right here, Honey. And she will look at me, pupils big and dark, her brow creased with worry. Then she'll look back at the night glass casting my reflection. Then back at me. And she will huff and sigh and make this agitated noise, almost like speaking and almost like howling. And she will come over to me and nudge me with her nose and put her paw on my leg and wag her tail. Like she is so goddamned happy. So relieved that I'm there. Because, holy crap Daddy-O, did you see that? There was somebody who looked just like you outside. And that was some scary shit, man.

The funny thing is she makes this mistake again and again. Because she doesn't get that it's an illusion—that I'm the thing she's seeing out there. And the fact that she gets so upset, and then so visibly relieved when she sees me ... it kind of cracks me up. Because otherwise she's a smart dog. She can sit and lie down and roll over. She can lift her front paw in the air when she's prompted to "wave." She knows how to fetch her leash from the doorknob when it's time for a walk. But the whole reflection thing, it just escapes her every time.

And I love that about her. And I get it. I do. Because we all have those things that we just don't grasp. We all have those mistakes we make, over and over.


Despite what you may have heard, I am not a dog. I walk upright. I understand the truth about mirrors. I'm a reasonably intelligent guy. And I can do any number of tricks. But I've got these mistakes I keep making. I've made them as long as I can remember, and I've yet to learn the trick of how to stop. And actually, if I'm going to be honest, I don't really want to. Because sometimes I like to make them. Sometimes, I set out to make them—on purpose.

And I used to get angry at myself about this. I used to huff and howl and scream at my reflection. But all that did was make me go hoarse. And so now, more and more, I just laugh. And I drink to forget. And I resolve to myself that I will do it again as soon as I can. Because the mistakes define me, brother. The trick is learning to deal with the consequences. And I guess that's the whole point. And I guess I kind of like that.

link to this | comments (5) | File:  TheLine  Honey  Chewing 

I've always heard it said that dogs are great chick magnets. Personally, I haven't found this to be the case. I think that's because "creepy unshaven smelly dude" outweighs "cute cuddly puppy" by a factor of three to one for women in the Jersey burbs. But I'll say this: Honey can turn a big, tough guy's heart to putty without even trying. And while this isn't usually a goal of mine, it can prove useful every now and then.

Last week, I had to make several trips to the Mazda dealership because Hoshi was having some issues with her breaks and suspension. Turns out she needed new rotors and there was a leak in one of her rear shocks. All the repairs were under warranty, which was nice, and while I was there I went ahead and had her oil and steering fluid changed. She seems much happier now, and the steering wheel no longer shakes dramatically when you break due to the warped rotors. And this all makes for a far less harrowing driving experience.

I like to expose Honey to new situations, so I brought her with me to the dealership each time I went. For me, bringing Honey places like this means bringing along a bag full of toys and treats to keep her entertained, as well as a blanket (God-forbid she lie on the cold, hard ground!) and a bottle of water and her "travel bowl" in case she gets thirsty.

Just to be clear, for any new readers: Honey is a dog.

So I enter the waiting room of the car dealership to pick up Hoshi and I'm carrying this arsenal of dog accoutrements with me in a SXSW festival bag which is slung over one shoulder, the blanket over the other, and Honey on her lead sniffing the floor next to me.

And maybe I should pause here to say that it might be that this looked a little ... what's the word ... "unmanly." You might even go so far as to call it "sissified." And believe me, I was conscious of this fact, especially since I was entering an auto shop, a place where masculinity seeps up through the cracks in the floor, where no matter who you are, your voice seems to want to drop a couple of octaves as soon as you set foot inside.

By the third trip there, the guys at the dealership knew Honey by name. And she was feeling more comfortable in this new environment and was eating up all the attention. A heavyset guy with a beard came out from behind the counter to pet her. He sat down in one of the chairs in the waiting room and called her over to him. I let her go play with him so I could sign the paperwork without her pulling and when I turned back, she was on her hind feet licking the guy all over his big bearded face which was now just one huge giddy smile.

And all at once, I no longer felt self-conscious about the blanket over my shoulder or the half-dozen toys in the bag I was carrying. Because this man who had the stature and appearance of somebody you might be intimidated by when you brought your car to him for repairs, had tears in his eyes. I'll say that again: there were tears of joy in his eyes. He was visibly choked up over my dog.

One of his workmates noticed this and asked him what was up.

"Sorry," he said "Dogs always do this to me. It's just ... she's so soft."

And the funny part was nobody laughed at him or ribbed him for being a pussy or anything like that. Because we all understood. And for a moment we all looked upon Honey in awe and acknowledged her sheer power over our hardened, man-hearts and we choked back our own tears and resisted the urge to hug one-another and start talking about our feelings.

And here's what I know: From now on, I'm always bringing a dog with me to car dealerships. Because I've finally figured out how to level the playing field.

link to this | comments (2) | File:  Oogah  Hoshi  Honey  Grunt 

I have a hard time letting go of things. No, really. I know it's hard for some of you to believe. But it's true. I tend to do a bit of the Dwelling. Upon subjects ranging from what to have for breakfast (Is it really safe to have grits, again? Answer: Yes. Of course.) to more serious things like what to put in a glass of scotch (Drambuie, Amaretto ... or just rocks? Answer: Just the ice, Daddy. This isn't the 60s.) But one of my favorite things to dwell on is travel, especially of the air variety. I've written before about this topic, right before a trip to the same place I'm going this weekend, in fact, so I'm sorry to be redundant. But this time, I've got a new source for my Fret: Honey.

It's hard to believe, but this will mark the first time I've been away from Honey for longer than a day since I brought her home back in April. Now, she won't be totally alone. C is staying behind, so she'll be able to take care of her most of the time. And I'm sure she'll do an excellent job. But just in case, it can't hurt for me to type up a page full of instructions for her, can it? And just give her some tips about things. You know, like how much food to give her. And what times we go for walks. And when and where she might poop. Or the more practical stuff ... like how she likes her pillow fluffed. Or how she appreciates her kong served with a side of caviar. And how she usually enjoys hugs and lots of belly-rubbing when she wakes up from naps.

See, the thing is ... C just doesn't have my penchant for pampering Honey silly. She takes a slightly different approach. She treats Honey kind of like ... a dog. And I'm not sure how I feel about it, honestly. Like this morning. As a good "warm-up," I decided to linger in bed and let C take Honey out for her morning two pees and a poo. This happens every morning at 6:30. Pee in spot one. Pee in spot two. Poop in random location to be decided. You could set your watch to it. C has done this job in the past. She knows the routine. In fact, I think she invented it. But I've taken the job over more and more for two reasons: C likes to hit snooze, and I suffer from a slight case of OCD. But I've grown to kind of like the morning trek outside. And what I've learned is that Honey needs support when she does her business. She needs encouragement and congratulations. But this morning C decided to just change all of that up, and to just stand at the back door while Honey went out to do her stuff. I heard the door open and close ... a little too quickly. So I had to get up and investigate.

"That was quick."

"Yeah, I just stood at the back door and let her go out by herself."

"What?!"

"Yeah."

"Did she poop?"

"No. She just peed."

"Well, of course she just peed! But she needs to poop. I mean, there is poop in her butt ready to come out. She just doesn't realize it."

"I thought it would be a good experiment."

Head-shaking. Sighing. Exasperation.

Needless to say, I took her out to poo.

I'm not sure if it was entirely clear or not, but there was OCD, and a touch of the morning grogginess to blame for this little tirade. I weren't always so level-headed, folks.

I admit it: I'm guilty of a little pampering. And so I guess my biggest worry about leaving for a few days is that Honey will just be too sad without me around and will decide she can't take it any longer and propel herself through a second-story window. I just see her waking up each morning and doing her butt-shake, foot-stomping thing over to my side of the bed, her ears back, her tail wagging, only to find that I'm not there. And I imagine this will crush her soul like nothing else in her six months on this earth. And she'll fall into a fit of depression and start hitting the bottle and smoking Pall Malls. And I'll come back home, and say, "Look Honey, it's me! I'm back!! It's okay now. All will be right with the world." But it will be too late. I'll have an alcoholic, chain-smoking dog on my hands. And she'll never forgive me for the pain and suffering I've caused her.

The truth is she'll probably see the empty spot on the bed and be sad for about the time it takes her to realize it's time for breakfast. Then she'll quickly go back to pondering the tragedy of leashes. Or dreaming about giant rawhides covered with bowlfuls of melted provolone cheese. Or peanut-butter-and-chicken stuffed kongs dancing with giant, day-glo pull-toys on a road paved with jerky treats. Yeah, she's probably more likely to pine over the neighbor's dog, Riley, than she is over me. And how she'd like to chase him in the back yard and lick at his slobbery mouth until it makes all the humans nearby want to vomit.

The truth is I'm the one who's going to miss her. I'm going to miss the routine of taking care of her. Of going for walks. Of teaching her tricks. Of giving her belly-rubs and hugs and kisses on the snout. It's me who's going to have the separation anxiety. I'm the one with issues, here. Clearly.

So if you see me, unshaven and unbathed. Passed out somewhere in Big-D with a bottle of Dewars in one hand, mumbling something about don't forget her bed-time snack, just look the other way. I'll be better in a few days. It's just my way of dealing.

link to this | comments (7) | File:  Travel  Honey 

When I told Honey I had posted a video of her carrying that paper across the street, she was like, "Oh, Christ, Dad. What's next, then? Talking about how it seems only yesterday I was this big or carrying around my lost baby teeth to show the neighbors?"

I thumbed the premolar in my pocket. "Of course not!" I said.

The weird part wasn't that Honey, you know ... spoke. It was that she spoke with an English accent. It wasn't exactly a proper, "Received English" kind of English, but it wasn't quite an East End of London, Cockney type of thing, either. It reminded me of the Beatles. She had a sort of nasal thing going on. Like John.

"Is that Scouse?" I asked her.

"'Tis. What of it?"

"Where did you pick that up?"

"It's a long story ..."

Apparently, even though Honey's mom, a Pit Bull, was from North Jersey, her dad, a German Shepherd, Vizsla mix, came over from Liverpool on a cargo ship carrying boxes of Kongs. Honey had spent a few formative weeks with him before he left her and her mom alone under the wood deck of a rairoad house in Queens. Before he left, though, he had taught Honey her ABC's and implanted a bit of Merseyside in her speech.

Honey went on to tell me that she didn't like this trend of mine, posting photos of her. And now videos. She was worried this would all end in some sort of doggy blog.

"I know. I know. You're right. But the strange thing is I don't really care. I just don't get it. I've lost my perspective on this shit. I guess I'm feeling old," I explained. "I mean, listen to this: did you know that the baby on the cover of Nirvana's Nevermind album is now 17 and is close to graduating high school?"

Honey just stared at me blankly.

"Sorry. I'll play it for you sometime. It's a terrible cliché to say this, but the album changed my life. Which probably isn't entirely accurate. It's more likely that my life was changing anyway, and that album just happened to serve as a soundtrack for it. And it's just weird. That baby ... is now a freakin' teenager. Which also makes me realize that Kurt Cobain died 14 years ago. And at some point after that we wound up with Techno. And I'm not sure which of those two things is more tragic."

"Jesus, Dad. Snap out of it, mate. Stop living in the past. Look, here's what I'm saying: You can write about me. Just tell people the real shit, man. You know ... what it's like for me out there on the streets. About my friend Riley who lives across the street and who's a lot of fun to play with and all, but you know—just between you and me—the bloke is a few short of a full bag of goodies, ain't he? Or those Daschunds, Oscar and Woody. Holy crap. Those two take the piss out of me every time we pass them on the street. Their constant name-calling. All I want to do is play and they're all making fun of my ears and asking when I'm going to grow into these feet and shit like that. I think I'll probably eat one of them one day when I'm bigger. Then there's that crazy Italian Greyhound, Lucus, who never says a thing, but looks like he's got all this pent-up sexual frustration, poor thing. You should talk about this shit, Dad. This is real bloody doggy drama, right here in the North Jersey burbs."

"I'll keep it in mind," I said. "You just concentrate on not pulling on your leash, and let me worry about the blog, okay?"

"Whatever," she said, and went back to a rawhide.

Adolescents.

link to this | comments (8) | File:  Music  Ho_Hum  Honey  Age