Flea Bag Moves In

One rainy day, we got a knock at our door. We had no idea what disaster awaited us. There in the arms of a neighbor was a wet rat that attacked my highly sensitive olfactory senses. Yes. It smelled like a wet dog. But it couldn't be. It weighed no more than a couple pounds. The only dog I've heard of that falls into that wimpy category is the hot dog. Somehow, the thing made its way into our house and into the Zen's bed. Once it dried out, I could see that this mini-monster was a cross between a miniature hyena, one of those Mexican hairless dogs - but it had hair - and a possum. I know my grandma has eaten possum, so I figured it was probably headed to her house for supper. No luck. I woke up the next morning and the beast was still in our house. Don't get my wrong. I believe in helping the homeless and I would have gladly handed over my outside doghouse to the creature. But it was IN OUR HOUSE. Worst yet: Zen had fallen in love with it. Well, it turns out that "it" is a "she." a Real She. With ovaries and a uterus. Yes, a real bitch. I'm about six times her size, yet she eats as much as I do. I think she can eat like a horse because she constantly runs in circles - to the right. I thought: Maybe she belonged to a Nascar fan, but she was spinning the wrong way. So she eats like a horse and exercises like that Commie broad Jane Fonda. And the worst? She brought fleas. I have NEVER had fleas. My pristine body didn't know what to do. Mom and Dad pay big bucks for our flea and tick meds, but she must house some hybrid flea that developed on the hind-ends of hyenas, because they live right through the dagnabbed meds. One good thing: She's not allowed on our bed. That's just for Dad, Mom and me. Lately I'm worried she's trying to steal my identity. Identity theft is a big deal these days. I've thought about signing up with Life Lock. The hybrid beast follows me around the house, sniffing my rear. When I go out to potty, she puts her head so close to my privates I'm afraid I'll pee on her (she's probably investigating what makes me tick.) When I'm finished, she hikes her leg (yeah, what girls do that?) and covers my urine with hers. Another strange thing. When somebody knocks on the door, Skittles (that's her name) attacks me like I'm waking her from beauty sleep (she needs it) or something. She bites at me. Relentless. First, what do I have to do with the folks who knock at our door? She's trying to steal my identity I tell you. I used to do the watchdogging. I think I call Life Lock before it's too late.

No Butts About It

Did you think I would post a picture of us allegedly sniffing butts?

Let's talk B.S., shall we. No, I'm not suggesting that we literally speak about manure. I want to speak about butt-sniffing. Let me just set something straight: no matter what it looks like, dogs do not sniff other dog's butts. The only time I have heard about actual butt-sniffing is in Congress.

I have been accused of butt-sniffing, but the accusations were absolutely false. Slanderous. I have a mind to sue for slander.

As most folks know, dogs have a very good sense of smell. That is why sercurity and police use us for sniffing out drugs and bombs. If we need to get up close to other dog's hind-ends to get a sniff, do you think the police would use us to sniff out drugs? Puhhhhhlease!

"Dogs have nearly 220 million smell-sensitive cells over an area about the size of a pocket handkerchief (compared to 5 million over an area the size of a postage stamp for humans), according to Wikipedia, which is not always accurate, but will do for this exercise.

In other words, we know smells. Which begs the question: What are we doing so close to the butts of other dogs if we can smell so well? First, we are not butt-sniffing. We are anal-sac sharing, or A.S.S. Each dog has a beautiful scent that emanates from these little sacs. Think of them as purses of perfume. The scent is unique.

An act of A.S.S.

I know this will make many women upset, because they go out of their way at Macy's and Nordstrom's to buy perfume that doesn't have near the staying power of our anal-sac creations. Sorry, ladies. God created our special scents and we don't pay a dime for them.

So when it appears that dogs are sniffing other dogs butts, we are doing nothing more than A.S.S.It's kind of like letting your girlfriend try on your best perfume. It is also kind of like shaking hands with a friend and offering a gift.

Do me a favor. Don't refer to it as butt-sniffing. That would be BS. Especially when it is A.S.S.

Don't Hate Me Because I'm Beautiful

Notice my proper sitting position!

The only reason this picture looks unusual to you is because you cannot sit like me. Notice how my front legs are spread wider than my back legs. Why is this? Well, it's simple. I have VERY LARGE BREASTS.

What is wonderful about my breasts is they are natural. That's right. These pretty pecs came as part of my gene package. I did not inherit them from my mom who, shall we say, is lacking in the boob department. (For the record, my mom does have Chesticles!) Aunt Pooh has a lot more chest. In fact, her friend Donna calls Aunt Pooh's boobs "the buddies" because they are, well, bazookas. So I must've gotten the same genes as Pooh.

But they aren't as big as mine, in relative terms. Aunt Pooh does not put her back legs inside her front legs when she sits down. My cousin Frappe is said to have a large chest. But he does not sit down like I do. He's not supposed to sit down at all ,and he prefers to lie down in his own urine mixed with wood shavings. But that's for another post.
Then there are the "posers," the women who buy their bazookas. For example:

Dolly Parton:

Pamela Anderson:

Raquel Welch:

I have to hand it to Raquel. At least she is trying to get her legs together so she has bigger busts than I. Please, ladies, don't hate me because I'm NATURALLY beautiful.

Hunter's Balls

Hunter and One of his Balls

That is not a growth on Hunter's face. But I think he has one of these imprinted on his brain. He is obsessed and it has gotten unhealthy. I think he needs to go into one of those Hollywood Rehab programs for guys who lose their balls and then obsess about them.

Don't get me wrong. I like balls, too. But they are not the first thing I think about in the morning and the last thing I dream of when I hit the sack. Hunter just can't stop with the balls. His favorite balls are tennis balls. He has chased and chewed so many of them that his canine teeth are worn down. The Vet said this is not unusual for his breed, Golden Retriever. I think it is more than that. Much more.

Hunter carries a ball with him everywhere. Who does that? Even alcoholic bums put their booze down every once in a while. I think it is much more Freudian. Nobody wants to talk about it, but I think this obsessive-compulsive behavior began when Mom took Hunter to get "fixed." The problem is he went in with all of his body parts and he came out minus two. Suspiciously, this is when he truly fixated on balls.

Small balls, big balls, fat ones and flat ones. Hunter loves them all. He is an excellent athlete. He can fly through the air with the greatest of ease when he's focused on a ball. Dad even got a special throwing device that he uses at the ranch to toss balls for hunter. Dad is also very athletic - I think we inherited our athletic prowess from him because Mom is hopeless - but throwing balls was wearing on him. I think he was getting tennis elbow and he wasn't even on the tennis court.

Mom gets really peeved when Hunter puts balls on her chair and she doesn't notice until she sits down and fells a hard, wet thing under her booty. If you try to ignore Hunter and do some work around the house, he will put his big ole head right in your work. For example, when Mom loads the dishwasher, Hunter will drop his ball in the washer to get her attention. When Dad works with tools, Hunter places his wet ball in Dad's work chest.

I have to hand it to him. Hunter is tenacious and creative. But he become a pest inside the house at night when we're trying to watch American Idol. If somebody doesn't toss the ball, he cries like a liberal begging for a tax increase. Annoying. Dad tells him "No!" But in the end, we are all his enablers. We buy him the balls, we play with him, and we even tuck him into bed at night with a ball next to his head.

So I shouldn't be so hard on my brother. I just worry about him. What will the future bring to a eunuch who loves balls?

Yoda I am - NOT. But I do know everything . . .

It's Not Easy Being the Yoda of the Moy Family

The chores around my house are such a burden. But somebody has to keep the cats in line, the bed warm, and the cat-food bowl clean.

I don't know what Mom and Dad did before I showed up. I guess they just put up with everything the others did around here. For the record: Sky pooped on Dad's pillow before I was born.

The other night we had another cat incident. Chester, who is an OUTSIDE cat, broke into the house like a common criminal. Chester used to be allowed inside until he started "marking" the furniture and he "marked" Dad. Bad move, dude.

Anyway, Chester sneaked into the house like a terrorist into America. But he didn't get by me. Mom called for me and said "get Chester." When she says this, she wants me to corral the interloper and herd him out of the house. Sometimes this is difficult. First, I was not born to be a herding dog. I was born to eat, sleep and get my butt scratched. Still, I try to rise to the occasion.

Chester darted to Sky's cat-food bowl, which I had already cleaned (lol). Mom scurried after Chester and captured the fool before I could get at him.

Let me stop right here. I have rules of engagement when herding the cats. I can't really use force, except I do grab a mouthful of hair every once in a while. Mom doesn't want me hurting the cats and I don't want to cripple them either. I would like to teach them a lesson or two because they are wiseacres.

Mom grabbed Chester and headed for the door. I followed, just to make sure the prisoner didn't escape again. I also had a taste for Chester's fur. I jumped and jumped (I'm very athletic), but Mom held Chester out of my reach. As I approached the loveseat in the front room, I got an idea: I had seen gymasts on TV practicing on trampolines. The couch looked like it might have some hoisting power. As Mom walked by with Chester in her clutches, I jumped on the loveseat and flew high enough to grab a mouthful of hair from Chester's keester. It was beauty in motion. I accelerated like the Shuttle to intercept the cat. My landing was a Perfect 10.

I could tell Mom was pleased because she laughed her "happy cackle."

Just another day in the life of the Beautiful Bulldog.

Welcome All - except Terrorists and their Enablers

So here I am: Freedom Dog.I have many brothers and a really mean sister, Sky the Attack Cat.

She thinks she can get away with anything. She even pooped on my dad's pillow once and she scratches mom. Not even my human sister, Zen, gets away with that crap.

I have a brother, Tyler, who's a horse; two dog brothers, Lucky and Hunter; a fish brother named "Fish;" a brother cat, Chester, who sprayed my dad once; and a sister, who's a dwarf bunny. (I like to pee under her cage!)I am 4 years old and gorgeous. I hate shopping, which surprise my mom who's addicted to Target (she calls it Tar-Jay. I think she does that to make me feel at home with the French thing, even though I'm not French anymore)

I sleep everynight between my mom and dad and they don't have sexual relations when we're all together. That would be gross!!

As far as sibling rivalry, I guess my biggest problems are with my sister, Sky. She's the one who pooped on Dad's pillow. She is downright mean. She hisses at me and claws at me. Sure, I irritate her by chasing her around and eating her food. But Puhlease!!!!! It's like she's always suffering from the Curse.

Anyway, I'm tired right now so I"m going to sleep for awhile.