Wednesday, August 10, 2011

I'm Not Wearing Any Underwear Today!

Why? Because I'm feeling wild and free, having just enhanced my frighteningly-masculine self with the ultimate man accessory. The dawg got a dog. I'm talking about a black Labrador puppy named Jack. When I'm writing, he's Jack London; when I'm traveling, he's Jack Sparrow; when I'm drinking, he's Jack Daniels; and when I'm trying to get lucky, he's Blackjack. Of course, when he's rolling in a suspicious puddle for his eau de toilette, he's Jackass. This pup is so much cuter than Penelope Cruz that I'm totally over her.

For those of you in hypersensitivityland, let me clarify. Jack's not my animal companion. He's not my same sex partner. He's my dog. Why must he fill this subordinate role, despite obvious moral superiority to his master? That's darwinistic kindergarden. I have tool-grasping thumbs and the power to make fire (which I swear to law enforcement officials I almost never use). However, let me remind those of you now sobbing at life's cruel indifference to Jack's plight that I'm not just a primalist but a deist. I believe that a merciful creator has rewarded Jack for his loyalty and goodness by giving him the capacity to lick himself. He's not handicapped; he's differently enabled. Most of the men I know would give up their thumbs for this ability. Most of the men I know would rarely need their "tool"-grasping thumbs, if they had this ability.

So, while you'll never see me bending down behind Jack in a park to pick up his poop (lest alien scouts think humans are dog lackies and refuse to negotiate the survival of the planet with such underlings), you will see Jack bouncing around the spacious grassy yard I provide him, woofing the healthy but ungourmet food I give him, and sitting with me on my porch under the stars at night, snuggling and telling each other how swell we are. I love you Jack. Now, that's enough of that. If any of you activists come over my garden wall pressuring Jack to demand equal status or organize into a syndicate, I will command him to attack with extreme prejudice and am not responsible for the brutal "licking" you'll receive.

Finally, I reach my point. Jack is now the official mascot of Sacred Ground Magazine. You freeloaders can still read the site without buying my critically-acclaimed book, but I'm working on a technology where you'll have to swear allegiance to Jack for site access. Until then, we'll use the honor system assuming that all readers duly respect the Jackmeister. Feel free to post comments of your undying affection for him. Then I'll attempt to translate these during one of our intimate lord and master / pet and fetcher talks. Penelope Cruz is still welcome to post comments about her undying affection, but she no longer means "Jack" to me. Sorry baby, I've moved on.

7 comments:

  1. Good thing you don't live in the States, and, in particular, California, or you would be picking up Jack's poop. It's the law here. You can actually get a fine for not doing so. It's one of those things about the States. When you're living in a different country, at first you adore the lawlessness, until you step in some literal shit that some dog left after his owner didn't fetch it. Or maybe the dog doesn't even have an owner, it's just some feral bitch running around with a chestful of swinging teats. Then you wish you were back in the States again. Give Jack a big wet smooch for me.

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  2. I'm with you, Lara. I don't support poop-laden parks or streets. What I'm saying is: a guy who gives his dog a sizable jungle to play and poop in shouldn't be pressured to get off his lazy butt and take him for constant walks to do his business. Those who live in small spaces have only two humane options: don't own large animals or do the pooper-scooper dance.

    On the other hand, my home state of California can't have it both ways. If he's my animal companion equal, he's responsible for his own droppings as I take full responsibility for mine. All I can say to "feral bitches running around with a chestful of swinging teats" is: don't be offended by Lara's characterization and call me.

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  3. I do the pooper-scooper dance. I even made one in my metals class in junior high. A pooper-scooper, that is. Anyway, despite my greyhound's incessant whining, he is also morally superior to all other living things in this house. My better half insists that I kiss and hug him more than I do her--and she might not be wrong! (Though I do hold the world record for kissing of girlfriend.)

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  4. Absolutely loved the post and posted it to My Life. One Story at a Time. on face book. If you ever make over to my blog, you will see many pictures and stories about two West German Shepherds. Calypso loves life and everything she can do - dig, run, bite, etc. and Ryka is a Princess. They have a couple of acres to rule and you will still find me out there with a shovel, scooping and fertilizing the flowers. It's called 'Scoop the Poop' and fortunately (or unfortunately) I write about it - sometimes more often than I should. Anyway - loved the post and hope you'll visit and read about my two canines, or The Princess (Ryka) and The Pea (Calypso.) Donna

    http://mylife-in-stories.blogspot.com

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  5. Hi Lyn, I'm one of those "feral bitches running around with a chestful of swinging teats".

    Maybe I can come over someday to play with you and Jack?

    Don't worry, I don't bite.

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  6. Osita, Osita, Osita! That's Spanish for mama bear. Papa bear was so with ya, till you said you didn't bite. That's a dealbreaker, cause for this ursus, too hot is just right. Sorry for the Goldilocks rhyme, but I'm gonna hold off on the animalistic rendevous for now.

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