An Award-Winning Disclaimer

A charming little Magpie whispered this disclaimer into my ear, and I'm happy to regurgitate it into your sweet little mouth:

"Disclaimer: This blog is not responsible for those of you who start to laugh and piss your pants a little. Although this blogger understands the role he has played (in that, if you had not been laughing you may not have pissed yourself), he assumes no liability for damages caused and will not pay your dry cleaning bill.

These views represent the thoughts and opinions of a blogger clearly superior to yourself in every way. If you're in any way offended by any of the content on this blog, it is clearly not the blog for you. Kindly exit the page by clicking on the small 'x' you see at the top right of the screen, and go fuck yourself."

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

When a Dog Enters Your Life...

Finley padded awkwardly into my life well over six years ago now. I had never owned anything larger, furrier or cuter than a guinea pig before, but I know I will always be a dog owner.

He's a funny little bastard. Tonight, my wife and I were giggling as we watched him consume his dinner lazily on his belly, like an opium-hazed prostitute. I'll bet you didn't know that's how opium-hazed prostitutes consume their dinners. Well, that's why you come to My Masonic Apron, isn't it-- for the edumacation?

Of course, owning a dog isn't all giggles and opium. It's hard work, too. Why, just the other day I picked up his feces. Twice!

Dog ownership is nothing if not expensive, as any dog owner who does more with his dog than lock him in the basement knows. It's even expensive if you ignore half of what the veterinarian says, like that echocardiogram and sonic ultrasound we were supposed to get for Finley. Hmmm... pass.

And then there are those legendary dog farts. Finley's, I feel, are especially eye-watering because of his specific dietary supplements. Evidently, dog food mixed with soy milk and broccoli has a remarkably high sulphur yield. I have had my nostril-hair singed off on more than one occasion by his ass-puckering stenchlettes.

Finley's especially nice to have around in the wintertime, when his fur-laden, elevated body temperature, 70 pound mass cuddles up against us in the frigid night. In the summertime, I kind of forget why we have him sometimes. Until, of course, I catch a glimpse of those beautiful, shimmering green eyes staring up at me with that soulful look that says, "Daddy, I Can Haz Soy Milk?"

You might think that the worst part about owning a dog is the vet bills. Or the stenchlettes. But it's neither of these things. It's the people you encounter when you're out and about with your dog. As Sartre so eloquently and succinctly said, "Hell is other people." It's certainly not dogs.

If you dislike people, you might be tempted to go get a dog. But beware, your contact with people will only increase after you acquire the canine, because they attract people. If you want to repel people, get a Fran Dresher and walk her around your neighborhood. Trust me, no one will bother you. Get a dog, though, and they won't stop coming near you, and they won't shut the fuck up.

In case you couldn't tell, I'm not really that into people. I didn't realize that my human-to-human contact levels would be significantly on the rise after I acquired Finley. Had I known this would happen, I might have reconsidered this new relationship. Before I got Finley, people generally knew instinctively to stay away from me when I was out walking around. I kind of skulk when I walk. I usually have my hands thrust deep into my pockets, my head is thrown forward like an aggressive hood ornament, my brow is furrowed as if I were concentrating on something (I'm usually not) and I walk at an inordinately rapid clip, whether I have somewhere important to be or not. Needless to say, I'm not the kind of person you'd see on the street and say "hi!" to. You'd be too concerned I might give you the finger or start yelling at you in some Arabic tongue.

Now that I have Finley, the scowl and the brow don't seem to deter anybody from accosting me with some time-wasting greeting, a blather or two about the weather, or an inane question or ill-conceived comment about the dog. I never know how to respond to these questions or statements, and I always end up saying something stupid because I'm embarrassed for them. I'm embarrassed that 6 year old children and 65-year-old retirees come up to me and ask "Is he a boy or a girl?"

I always want to answer-- "Why do you want to know? Are you single?"

I mean-- what the fuck is the difference to you whether my dog is a boy or a girl? I realize that there's not much you can reasonably ask about a dog ("Does he have all his original teeth?" sounds very strange) but, why do you have to ask anything at all? When you see someone walking with their spouse, you wouldn't stop them and go, "Hi-- do you believe all this rain we've been getting? Man! So, are you guys married or are you just fuck-buddies?" I mean, seriously-- what's with the questions? Leave me and the dog alone.

Oh, and he's a boy. Wanna suck his dick?

The other question we get about Finley a lot is "Is he old?" People ask this question because Finley is gray and people are conditioned to associate the color gray with oldness, the same way Catholics associate Ritz crackers with Jesus. Again-- why do you want to know? Do you want to help him cross the street so you can get a Boy Scout Merit Badge? Are you going to give him a prostate exam? Do you want to know if he has an Advance Directive? Maybe you're trying to buddy up to him in his autumn years so he'll leave you his collar in his will. You sick bastard. I don't want to picture you wearing his collar. That's disgusting.

Easily, though, the greatest indignity that any dog owner must suffer is the shame and ignominy that comes when your dog has his face buried in the crotch of a visiting human who is also a dog owner, and you must endure that most trite, automatic, idiotic, embarrassed and embarrassing of statements,

"Oh, he must smell my dog!" And it takes every ounce of jaw-clenching, teeth-grinding self-restraint to refrain from replying,

"No, he smells your pussy."


  1. Well that story didn't end how I expect it to...

    Was expecting you to come out and admit that you actually like other life/people, or something.

    Fat chance, eh.

  2. I'm with phairhead - gotta go with the cats, but I am particular even with the cats and they have to be male cats because the females are just too tempermental for me.

    If I ever see your scowly face out and about I will not ask about your dog or accost you about the weather or any other mundane small talk thing. I will just keep to my side of the sidewalk and come here to comment on your posts.

  3. Soy milk, huh? That's one spoiled dog!

    Also, I tagged you in my blog. GO CHECK IT OUT!!!

  4. When you were writing this I bet you never thought that Finley actually WOULD have his dick sucked...oh Nucklehead.
    Also i will stop asking questions about people's dogs. Its not that I ever want to know the answer, but I do want to pet their sweet cuddly and that makes it awkward with the human (whom i should have more in common with, biologically) so i ask an inane question like "what kind of dog is he?" and pretend that this dog is so cute that if only i knew what kind of dog it was I would go out and get one for myself. not.


Got something to say? Rock on with your badass apron!