Florida woman, 81, arrested for feeding bears lots of dog food

[Headline, Huffington Post]

Feed a bear a can of dog food for lunch and the bear is hungry again at dinnertime.

Teach a bear to hunt down, kill, and eat a dog and the bear… well, it’s still hungry again at dinnertime.

But you don’t have to keep opening cans of dog food for it! The bear is self-sufficient! It can go out and kill a dog and eat it without you picking up a can opener. Is that so hard to understand?

But look. Once all the dogs are gone, all you’ve got left is cans of dog food. And a lot of hungry bears. If you don’t feed the bears, because they can’t open the cans for themselves, what with having paws instead of hands, whom do you think the bears are going to eat next? People! When my electric can opener broke, I was damned lucky to come out of it alive!

This all started when the highway patrol pulled me over with a truckload of dogs.

“Do you need all those dogs?” said the patrolman.

“Does a bear poop in the woods?” I said.

You see, the whole misunderstanding came about because of the ambiguity inherent in the words “dog food.” After my close calls with the cans, I decided to eliminate the middleman and just give the bears dog food, i.e., food made out of dogs, i.e., what I said above. Only, when the dog population waned, I had to start trucking them in.

This seemed easier than teaching the gators to eat the bears.

While in the pokey, I did figure out how to handle this bear situation. It’s so simple! Teach the bears to open the cans of dog food!

If you’ve ever watched the My Little Pony shows, you know that animals without hands can still manipulate just about anything. Flutterfly and Pinkie Pie always use a toothbrush at bedtime, for example. I’ve seen them do it. They hold the brush with their little hooves somehow.

Also, when you’re planning to live with the bears (not the Care Bears, ha ha!): get married, so that if you do run into a situation where the bears are going to eat a human, you’ll have one handy.

Dog Brings Home Human Leg

Milojica is a black flat-coated retriever. Last summer I trained him for a month to find and retrieve wallets. No luck. Now he brings home a leg.

I tossed the leg in the freezer in the garage and posted an item on craigslist. Nobody wanted the limb, not even, evidently, its owner.

It’s a male leg, or that of an exceptionally hirsute, muscular female. No polish on the nails. A little lint between the toes. (The leg has a foot on one end.)

There is a small tattoo above the ankle – two Chinese characters, taken together meaning “Huizhou tamale.”

Next day I took the leg out of the freezer, let it thaw, and had Milojica sniff it once or twice. Between his nose and bringing the thing home in his mouth in the first place, he had to have its scent firmly embossed upon his canine brain. I led him out the front gate, aimed him down the road, and said “Fetch.” Slapped his rump to get him going. He sped away, down the street and into the woods.

“Will he bring back the other one?” said my daughter Jasna.

I shrugged. While we waited, I went inside and posted a picture of the leg on Facebook. Friends registered many Likes (trolling spam) but no Wants. Well, one want, but for totally inappropriate reasons.

On Twitter I posted “What to do with my leg?” As I have no followers, no one responded.

Milojica returned empty-mouthed. He trotted into the open garage and sat down whining in front of the freezer.

“That is not your personal chew toy,” I said.

“Aw, Dad, please?” said my son Javor.

“We don’t let the cats toy with the birds they catch,” I said. “This is the same thing.”

“Well, can we play with it?” Jasna said.

“No you cannot,” I said. “Stay out of the freezer or I’ll give you a good thrashing.”

In the dark of night, though, with Milojica at my side, I took out the leg myself, and warmed it with a hair dryer. I can’t say why, but I had sentimental feelings for it. Perhaps it reminded me of my father’s leg. Or poor Yorick’s.

The leg went all the way up, but stopped just before it would have got, you know, weird.

Cat from Hawaii found in Ohio

[Headline, CNN]

I was sitting on my porch when I saw a cat coming down the street. He was obviously lost. I whistled him over and as I scratched his head, I checked his collar. He was from Hawaii.

I went inside and found some chocolate-covered macadamia nuts and a little leftover poi and brought it out to him. He wolfed it all down. I could tell he was hungry.

I called my sister, who lives in Wailea.

“I’ve found a lost cat,” I said. “His collar says he lives in Kihei.”

“Why, that’s right down the road,” my sister said. “Where are you?”

“Home in Ohio.”

“I’ll be darned. Well, put him on a plane to Kahului and I’ll meet him there and take him home.”

“Thanks, Sis.”

I had a carrier that I bought at Target after a lost dog showed up from Paris and caught me unprepared. I put this little guy in it (his name was Kamehameha) and took him down to our local airstrip. He had to make a connection in Columbus but after that he had a straight shot to the islands.

Family Who Believed Puppy Had Died After Accident Gets Big Surprise

(Headline, Huffington Post)

Our biggest surprise was how good Ronald Reagan looked, pretending to be a puppy again. We gave him a whole-body buzz cut and dyed him in mixed gray, black, white, and cafe au lait. Cute dog!

As we reported to the press, Ronald fell into our big hamburger grinder. When a batch of ground meat and fur came out the other end, well, we were sure that poor old Ronald was a goner.

But not so. He got wedged up in there before reaching the swirling blades. The big cat from next door wasn’t so lucky. Ronald will never catch up with old Whiskers now.

Ronnie likes to sit in front of the high def and watch the video clip from the news story over and over again. There he is and… oops, into the grinder. Now that’s news.

Look for Ronald to return next month. “Faithful Family Dog Returns Home After 1,000-Mile Trek,” and then, “Family Dog Saves Infant From Burning Crib.” We’d better be sober for that one!

You Won’t Believe What This Dog Brought Home

(Huffington Post headline)

We named our dog Ronald Reagan. Not for when the President had Alzheimer’s. Before that. The henna Reagan used in his later years? We dyed our Ronald the same color. It’s sort of an homage.

Our Ronald is a total publicity hound ha ha. He’ll do anything to grab another fifteen minutes of fame. “Dog Returns Home After 6 Years.” Remember that one? That was Ronald (dyed black). The story was that for six years, he was agoraphobic. Six years of therapy, he wouldn’t leave home. Then finally one day he walked down to the corner and back. Returned home for the first time in six years.

“Dog refuses to leave grave of master.” Remember that one? Ronald again (dyed white). The story doesn’t mention that I also refused to leave the grave, or that I had the dog on a leash. After a couple of days, Ronald was convinced that I had gone completely nuts. The wife would come down with her scooper and a plastic bag twice as big as usual.

Next, Ronald (dyed brown) brought home a kid’s report card. Nobody cared. He brought home an old lady’s social security check. Nobody cared. He brought home a human hand. A human hand is not easy to come by, legally or illegally. Nada. We were asking ourselves, who do you have to screw around here to get your story in the news? Fortunately, what with the 24/7 news cycle and everything, it was really just a matter of time.

Sex For Pleasure Not Uniquely Human

(Huffington Post headline, 11/13/11)

Festus is a five-year-old redbone coonhound. He’s a big, noisy dog who is always willing to jump up and lick your face and be petted. My wife and I love him and take him with us everywhere, always making sure that he gets enough exercise and attention.

All was fine until I read the Huffington news article mentioned above. It turns out that this dog, “man’s best friend,” has been thinking along the same lines as I have, sex-wise, all along.

I always thought that his lolling tongue and panting were cute. Now I see them for what they are. Signs of pure lust.

A dog isn’t like an old married man. A dog is always ready to get it on. That’s why they’re called dogs.

When Festus would lie there on the rug sleeping, and start twitching and yipping, tail thumping, I always figured he was dreaming about being out hunting with me in the woods. Ha.

The equipment is right there, for all the world to see. It’s like living with a nudist. A well-hung nudist, pardon my French.

Anyway, now I’m noticing how often my wife takes Festus out to the dog park, or so she says, for some “exercise.” He comes back all lathered up and flops down in a heap. And starts licking himself. Down there. Now I ask you.

Dog sleeps at foot of bed, you figure he’s faithful, until you realize that when you’re at work, he’s probably in the bed. Dog barks at the mailman and you figure he’s protecting the house, until you begin to wonder what the mailman was up to before Festus was big enough to scare him off.

There’s a woman at work who reminds me of a toy poodle, but that’s another story.

I began planning to catch Festus and my wife in the act. Planning how I would report this dog to the police, or to the pound, or to whoever deals with cases like this, and have him hauled off like the two-timing cur that he is. Fortunately for me and my marriage, before I could act I read this new article, “Women Are Sick of Men Behaving Like Animals.” I can see now that my wife is just as put off by Festus and his forward behavior as she is by me when I paw her in bed.

Dog Calms Crying Baby

Headline in the Huffington Post 11/13/11.

Congratulations to Dora, a hound.

The baby had been crying for a long time (check the Guiness Book of World Records for details). Having broken that record, the family now wished to go for the “Animal calming crying baby” record. Points are awarded for how long the baby has been at it, the age of the baby, the length of time required for the animal to do the trick, and, of course, the animal’s species.

In the running, a chimp (disqualified because it had been lobotomized), several dogs, a litter of kittens, a porcupine (parents arrested for child endangerment), and several animals, also disqualified on the basis of Dr. Kravitz’s reseach, which shows that children falling silent in the face of a roaring lion, a slavering, growling wolf, or a hissing cobra, are not in fact being “calmed.”

Dora is known to have hated the incessant squalling. She could see the secret measures taken by Mom and Dad to keep the infant howling. She did not approve. For one thing, her doggy ears are more sensitive to a baby’s screams than are those of parents whose senses have been dulled by alcohol and heroin. She considered tearing out the thoats of these two addicted child-abusers, but Dora comes from a long line of well-trained hunting hounds. Not for her the easy (and fun) solution.

What were her options? Licking the caterwauling baby into submission? Offering her  nine canine dugs to little Kyle (number of dog nipples varies and is not necessarily an even number)? Bringing the child a snack, such as Gerber’s Sweet Potatoes? Learning how to operate the family entertainment center so as to play the youngster some Raffi? Surreptitious threats (throat-tearing again)?

Dora, who was originally rescued by a monastic pound and trained by its acolytes, was well-versed in the art of canine communication with the Devine. Dog prayer, in other words. As is well-known, all dogs go to heaven; not so well known is that they have an open line to the place. Few use it because few are so intelligent and hand-trained in the Catechism as a monkish (or in this case, nunish) hound.

Dora knelt, on her knees feeling rather like a sheep, and prayed that the little monstrosity would first, clam up, and second, be carted off by Child Protective Services to a decent home. She also asked for a dispensation regarding the parents, whose lives she held in her paws, especially when they had just fixed up and were nodding. God granted the first two wishes but denied the third. It is not deemed Christian that a pet murder its owner, even with cause.

God’s Dog 1

Does God have a dog? Yes. Just a dog, though, not a cat or a bird or a goldfish or a gerbil or a ferret, and he’s not one of those nuts who keep a goddamned cheetah in their house. God has assigned all of his pets, other than the dog, to Noah, who is good at taking care of disparate animals.

When cat lovers arrive in Heaven and find out that God has a dog but no cat, they feel anger. If their anger registers too high on the heavenly anger meter, they’re sent directly to Hell.

What kind of dog does God have? What breed? Does God love the pit bull? He won’t commit on the pit bull. You can’t pin Him down. A guy told me that he (the guy, not He) was out for an evening once with Gabriel, Michael, Raphael, Uriel, and Bruce, and Him, and when it got late and they were all a little impaired, God did whisper something to them about pit bulls – to all of them but Uriel who, ironically, was off urinating. But none of them will tell me what He said.

Anyway, God has a Jack Russell. He has always been partial to fox hunting and this active terrier is ideal for the sport. Of course, God doesn’t use actual foxes. Satan turns souls currently burning in Hell into faux foxes. They’re glad to be out, sort of like Nick Cage in “Drive Angry,” even if they are being chased through the woods of Heaven by a pack of terriers. It’s actually just God’s dog, named Jamie, chasing them, but he seems like a pack. Heaven is full of that sort of thing.

Of course, sadly, you can’t talk about religious matters for more than a minute without sex coming up. I apologize for that in advance, but I didn’t create the Universe. You Know Who did. Having said that, what does Jamie do for “relief.” Yes, he mounts God’s leg and that’s a really cute sight, in a scary sort of way. (Did I mention that Jamie can talk and the sermon on the mount began with this?)

But it’s not enough. Jamie needs a bitch. God tried having Satan send up faux bitches. Some of them hated that duty but others sort of enjoyed it. Jamie wasn’t satisfied. His partners would scream or shriek or beg for mercy or moan in delight, depending, but none of them howled like, well, you know, like a bitch in heat. So God asked Noah to send over the real thing. Her name was Ethel and she was prime stuff. But she didn’t take to Jamie. Every time he sniffed her, she’d turn and lift her lips up over her considerable canines in a snarl, with fire blazing from her big beautiful liquid dark eyes. Jamie was beside himself.

“You’re God,” he barked at his master. “Do something.”

“With your breath, I don’t blame her,” God said. “Let’s change your devine kibble.”

For the denouement to this tale, look up “God’s Puppies” in the Book of Enos (brother of Elvis).

My Friend Paco (2009 – 2011)

Paco was one of the biggest chihuahuas in Hollywood. I met him on the Universal lot last year. I was supposed to be coaching dialog but the production chief needed someone to walk Paco out in the canine exercise park between scenes and he asked me to do it. Paco took to me immediately, or at least to my ankles and feet.

After the shoot, Paco’s owner and agent Myra kept me on as dog-walker six days a week. Paco and I would head down to Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills and over a period of weeks, we made friends there with some of the other mutts and their masters out for a stroll. One time we went home with a woman named Naomi and her chihuahua Prissy and at the end of the day, Paco and I were doing the same thing with them, or to them, and in the same position!

I was on the scene when it all came to an end for poor Paco. I was sitting in a canvas chair off to the side with a pooper-scooper in one hand and a bag full of doggie treats in the other. Paco had worked with other dogs before, and with birds, monkies, and a skunk. But never with a tiger. And not just any tiger. This was Montecore.

It didn’t matter to Universal that Montecore had attached Roy Horn (of Siegfried and Roy fame) in Vegas. It didn’t matter that the tiger sank its teeth into Horn’s neck and dragged him off stage in front of a horrified audience at the Mirage. The tiger damaged an artery carrying oxygen to the magician’s brain and crushed his windpipe. The attack left Horn, 60, partially paralyzed, and ended one of the most successful shows in casino history. I loved the show, especially when I had been drinking, but I never trusted that damn Montecore, even back before the “accident.”

Was Montecore hungry at the time? No. Was he startled by a woman’s beehive hairdo? I don’t think so. Did it bother Montecore that Roy was so obviously gay? Well, maybe on that one. But mainly, I think Montecore was just being an asshole.

If everybody knows you, Universal wants you. Universal doesn’t care why.

You’ve probably read that the dog with DNA closest to that of a wolf is in fact the chihuahua. I can vouch for that finding. Paco was on edge that fateful day, perhaps because of a presentiment, perhaps because he’d spent the previous night with a whippet bitch and I never managed to find a cardboard box the right height for him to stand on. When he saw Montecore, he went right for him, yapping. Professional jealousy? Method acting? We’ll never know, because Montecore ate him on the spot.

Reality Show: Dogs

This is an old idea. Several shows have started production based on it, only to be shut down for one reason or another. Put together the right package and you and your agent will find yourself greenlit before you can lift your leg on the nearest fire hydrant.

First, choose the dogs – You’ll need at least one who doesn’t get along with other dogs. Conflict is important. Also, a cute one – a flirty bitch. Plus a big, muscled lug, a crafty, foxy one, and a nerdy mutt who thinks too much. You’ve got to have a Chihuahua that’s a little crazy and one of those dogs big as a small pony. Make one of those male and the other female.

The series transpires on a lush tropical island, of course. There is a beautiful luxury home, an obstacle course, jungle, a waterfall – scenery, in other words.

No human is ever seen. This is a dog show. People aren’t welcome, especially those struggling actors that show up in reality shows every week, hoping that you don’t recognize them from their work in commercials.

Each week, the dogs vote one of the pack off the island. How is this done? Well, you know, they don’t literally vote. Figure something out with that nose-to-ass sniffing thing, maybe.

What you can’t avoid here, with no human people in the show, is a pack of dogs running around more or less aimlessly for an hour every week. Say one week the show opens on the beach. There’s the dogs, whichever are left by this time. They’ve been let out on the beach. They don’t know. They’ve been fed. They run this way. They run that way. Some of them like water. Some of them hate water. But even the ones that like water aren’t going to just run out into the fracking ocean. You’ve got to at least throw a god-damned stick out there, or something. A frisbee. But you can’t, because you aren’t there. Nobody is.

Or another week, the show opens in a clearing in the jungle. There they are, the dogs, in the clearing. Do they disappear into the jungle? Say you put a tiger out there. Do they cringe or do they run after it. A tiger could take a pack of housebred dogs easy. Tear them up. Do they know that? Or if it’s a python? It would have to be a hungry one. Otherwise, they hang up in the trees like a vine. You’ve got nothing.

Or, and this is the last suggestion and then you’re on your own. I can’t give you everything. They’re up at the top of the island’s volcano. It’s rumbling, it’s steaming, it’s going to blow. Will the dogs push one of their own into the lava to save the pack? You’ve got to keep saying over and over that no dogs were hurt during the filming of this show, even if it’s bullshit, or PETA will put you in a world of hurt. But then having said that, it’s a pack of fracking dogs. A dogpack. They return to the wild at the drop of a hat. Haven’t you ever had one of those things turn on you? I’m more into aquariums myself, but you know how dogs can be. If you’ve got a pit bull or two in there, even with expert handlers and with them getting thrown off the island, or into the lava, you’ll be lucky if they don’t manage to bite you at least once.