As you know, I spend huge chunks of my day
giving to others eating candy and drawing pictures of sea monsters. Other than that (and making sure that the house is always tidy, in case Hugh Laurie would swing by for Uncrustables and sex), the only thing on my agenda is to catch Nat Geo's daily airing of "The Dog Whisperer".
The more I watch that show, the more I'm convinced that Cesar Millan is some kind of camp shirt-wearing wizard. Somehow within the time wedged between two Avodart commercials* he can transform a destructive beast who has eaten enough end tables to shit out an Ashley Furniture showroom into a submissive, respectful pet who not only ignores the sofa but has also prepared the evening meal. From scratch.
The downside to prolonged D-Whisp viewing is that it makes me feel increasingly like the Lynne Spears of Dog Moms, watching helplessly as Pigpen tears through my home haphazardly, leaving a trail of teethmarks in his wake. I have tried Cesar's Shhht! (TM) sound on multiple occasions and Pigpen usually responds by burying his teeth in my knuckles while demanding that I buy him a pack of Camels and a four wheeler.
The results are always the same and dedicated viewers (The Cesarians? The Millanaires? The Single Woman at Home on a Friday Night Watching the New Episode and Sobbing Uncontrollably, Coating Her Chicken Pot Pie With a Thin Layer of Tears?) will note that the beleaguered humans baked into each episode usually fall into one of these categories:
1) The Family Who Brought This On Themselves: Including my favorite subgenre, the people whose solution to training difficulties is to overwhelm the dog with rewards. The pup pissed on Aunt Evelyn? Give him a treat while you Lysol her legs! He aerated the ottoman with his front paws? Treat! Little Mittens killed a drifter? Have a Nylabone while Momma wipes this blood off her Precious Moments.
2) The People Who Wou--Wait, Is That A Fountain?: At least once an ep, Cesar rolls his Jeep Liberty into the drive of some hot address in the 310** and I inevitably stop giving a shit about Baxter the Pug's leash issues and focus instead on the marble floors, the swans, and whether Baxter's daddy is wearing a wedding band. The disturbing part? The swankest cribs are always inhabited by people who don't seem to have jobs.
I KNOW. I'm unemployed too, but I'm also lucky enough to have a landlord who popped me out of her uterus. If my parents didn't let me pay the rent with popsicle sticks and pieces of Laffy Taffy, Pigpen and I would be huddled together for warmth in the Wendy's parking lot, wondering if their fish filet was still considered "premium" after gestating in the dumpster for two days.
3) The Lesbians: Join us for another chapter from the continuing saga of "Cuddles Has Two Mommies".
While I'm not quite ready to dial up the D-O-Double G Whisperer, my li'l Puppy Genius spent this morning eating a zipper*** and trying to pick up a sunbeam with his teeth. My biggest complaint is the way he continues to slamdance into my neighbors like an overzealous Screaming Trees fan, causing some people in the building to give us the stinkyeye and others to avoid us altogether.
Over the weekend, he threw himself into one woman on the elevator, causing her still-steaming mochaccino to rain down all over her white coat. I apologized profusely and offered to write her a check for her dry cleaning (even though it would bounce like fucking Gusto Gummi) but I was secretly delighted by the possible demise of her redonkulous knee-high fuzzy fur boots which made her look look like she'd just shoved each foot through an Ewok's skull.
Maybe I'm the one who needs a good Whisperin'.
Regardless, Cesar's Way hasn't exactly gotten it done, so now whenever The Pig crosses a line, I respond by shaming him. That's right.
He's going to wear that Thriller tee and sit in the corner thinking about what he has done. Until then, he can forget about that four-wheeler.
*WOMEN SHOULD NOT HANDLE AVODART. WOMEN SHOULD AVOID STARING DIRECTLY AT AVODART. AVODART MAY SUDDENLY ACCELERATE TO DANGEROUS SPEEDS.
**Rocks his khakis with a cuff and a crease? Check. Love for the streets reppin' 2-1-3? Nope.
*** Ensuring that I'll spend two days Temperance Brennan-ing his buttnuggets and hoping to find that missing piece of YKK-stamped metal.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
As you know, I spend huge chunks of my day