The problem, of course, lay in the aftermath—the chewed shoes, the midnight barking sessions, and the occasional indoor puddles. None of this seemed to register on Dad’s myopic radar. His eyes would light up like a kid in a candy store, and he’d declare, “Meet our newest family member!”
I was just a toddler when Duke, the Dalmatian, pranced into our lives. Dad beamed as he presented the spotted wonder to Mom. “It’s about time Dave took on some responsibility,” he said.
"What nonsense are you talking? Dave is only 18-months old and still not toilet-trained. How can he walk a dog when he's schlepping around a loaded diaper?"
Sadly, Duke’s tenure was short-lived. By Christmas, Dad gifted his best friend, Bud the firefighter, with Duke because, “No self-respecting fireman should be without a Dalmatian in his home," he declared, waving goodbye to Duke’s wagging tail.
Next came Prince, the German Shepherd. He was a majestic beast, loyal and fierce. But one fateful August night, Prince vanished during a backyard pee break. Dad’s explanation? “He was dognapped. It's goin' around the neighborhood."
Of course that's not what he told his friend, Pat the cop when he gifted him with Prince. "No self-respecting cop should be without a German shepherd at home."
This absurd ritual repeated itself—like a canine Groundhog Day—until our house resembled a war zone. Objects were devoured, furniture shredded, and hazmat suits donned for emergency clean-ups. And poor Mother! Her ultimatum echoed through our urine-stained halls: “It’s either the dog or me!” until the ultimatum got stuck in a cobweb.
But we were a dog family, bound by an unwritten code etched into our family crest: “E pluribus canis” (Out of many, dogs -- which makes no sense at all).
Then, one stormy night, as Dad cradled a fluffy yellow Labrador puppy, something shifted. Maybe it was the lightning illuminating his eyes or the puppy’s soft whimper. Dad whispered, “I promise, this one’s different.”
And it was. We named her Becky —a moonbeam wrapped in fur. Becky grew up with us, her paws leaving imprints on our hearts. She never chewed a shoe or barked at the moon. Instead, she listened, she even helped us with our math.
On her first Christmas, Dad knelt by the tree, holding Becky’s paw. “No self-respecting family should be without a faithful companion,” he said, placing a tiny silver charm on her collar—a lighthouse, its beacon forever guiding us home.
Becky became our protector, our confidante. She never left our side, even when Dad tried to gift her to Irma our cleaning lady. Ironically, Mom bonded the closest with Becky and her new ultimatum became, “It’s either me and Becky or the door."
And so, our family crest evolved: “E pluribus canis et amor” (Out of many, dogs and love). Becky's legacy lived on, not in chaos, but in quiet moments—the warmth of her fur, the rhythm of her breath, and the promise that some bonds transcend even the Theatre of the Absurd.
]]>Like many of you, I wouldn't mind taking a long nap and waking up in April. Canadian winters in February are no picnic to say the least, particularly if you are a dog owner. How most of us dread slipping on the boots, coats, hats, and gloves to walk our pooches when it's below 20 outside and icy and snowy and whatever else nature throws at us.
That said, the winter dog walk does not bother me the least. I throw on my big red parka that my wife wants to burn, zip up the hood, (which is key to remaining toasty warm), and don all the other accouterments that are part of my Arctic winter garb. I'm also lucky that my rugged Welsh terrier, DJ, has a thick wiry coat that renders him impervious to the harsh Canadian clime. So long as we stay away from the road and sidewalk salt, every walk he takes is a joyous winter celebration. He frolics, rolls in the snow, he proudly sprinkles his yellow mark of Zorro on every snowbank, snowman, and snow fort, (much to the chagrin of my hapless neighbors).
I'm warm inside my parka, the cold fresh air that I breathe is invigorating, exhilarating, and intoxicating. I marvel at the terrestrial beauty of the suburban landscape with its snow-capped homes and fluffy white trees and wonder how the crows and pigeons survive, and why they don't fly south for the long winter season.
I peer into the homes of my neighbors, not because I'm nosy, (although I am), rather I feel a sense of collective wellness that we're all safe and sound inside our comfy abodes riding out the winter in relative contentment. I don't miss the sweltering heat, the oppressive humidity or the invasive insects poking, stinging and biting my fair skin. I am a true Northerner, I embrace the winter and there is no better way to revel in all its glory, then with a simple walk around the block with my dog.
Baby it's cold outside.
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Thawing is good for cats, puppies, seniors, and dogs with missing teeth. Of course, they don't get much of a chew from the mushy meal, but for these guys, the chew is not the issue. So forget about food cleaning the teeth - not gonna happen.
And speaking of cleaning, thawing is on the messy and pain-in-the-butt side. You must take it out the night before, scoop or chop up the portions, and make sure you do a super job of cleaning up, getting off all the grime and gristle. Hey, some people find cleaning therapeutic.
Cooking is a wonderful way to get the picky cat or dog to eat because it brings out the aroma and the savory experience of the meat. The scent sense of dogs is so powerful that it's the determining factor of whether your pooch loves or hates the food. Nothing motivates your pet to chow down like the enticing aroma of meat wafting past his nose, heeding to his cry of the wild.
Also, to a certain extent, hot meat simulates the fresh, steaming warm kill of the carnivore. Ever see the steam rising after wolves gorge on a fresh kill in the winter?
That said, freshly killed meat is certainly not cooked, it's just uber fresh in kind of a disgusting way. There ain't a wild carnivore on the planet that eats cooked meat and their short digestive tract certainly didn't evolve to process cooked meat. It's always been about raw.
But how about a New and Improved Raw - namely, frozen raw? You may initially shirk at the thought of it, but please hear me out. No question - eating frozen meat-based meals delivers more benefits, real important ones like:
Cleaning teeth: a frozen chunk of meat scrubs the teeth like a tooth brush and best of all, (unlike kibble), it's non-abrasive. Understand that your cat or dog's mouth is a really hot place, so the water from the chew effectively rinses the teeth. I just took my 8-old dog to the vet and he couldn't get over how white his teeth were, as sparkling as that of a year-old pooch after a visit to the dentist.
Water: Ice is just another form of water. Your pet will get so much water just from his meal that he will rarely drink water from a bowl. Of course, we all know that water is not just the key to good health, but of life itself.
The Chew: There's nothing as gratifying for your pet like the chew of frozen meat. It works the jaw muscles, takes time and satiates your pet carnivore's primal instincts. Cat or dog, big or small, our pets were born to kill, to rip flesh, to chew - that's just what they do. Accept it, embrace it and more important, try it.
The Clean up: There's not much of it, a quick wipe will do. No prep work - well if it's Mrs. Meadys' food that is. Grab a few chunks or meatballs from the bag and drop it in the bowl. C'est tout!
But it's all good, raw that is. So serve it your way, but give frozen a shot!
ORDER MEADYS' RAW FOOD NOW & SERVE IT YOUR WAY!
Picky eaters are for kids.
Consider these points:
1) I've never heard of a cat or dog starving when offered food every day.
2) Carnivores are not picky eaters by nature. If it's warm-blooded, they will eat it, scavenging included.
3) Man originally domesticated cats and dogs by throwing them their scraps of food. Ultimately it worked. How else could you explain the pug?
4) Modern man (and woman) spoil the hell out of their pets. Sales revenue of close to $30 billion for pet food (in the US) last year according to my needle-nosed cousin, Clifford. Enough said.
Unless your treasured pet has an allergy, there is no reason for him to turn up his nose at good food whether it's fish, poultry, or red meat.
The thing is: We let them get away with it.
Case in point: My Welsh terrier, DJ.
The brat was gobbling up lamb like there was no tomorrow. Then one day out of the blue, he walked away from it. So like a typical guilt-ridden doggy dad, I gave in and fed him turkey which he ate with gusto.
Big mistake.
A week later, I gave him lamb again and as expected he turned away. But this time I refused to cave. I put the lamb back in the freezer and the poor boy didn't get fed that day.
Guess what? The next day he ravaged that same lamb.
All this to say that an animal that has the privilege of living with a caring owner such as you, should not be allowed to dictate his meal preferences. Your carnivore is a beast - albeit a cute one - that should eat like a beast!
Don't give in to your cunning pet's whims. Trust me, it won't kill him to go a day without food. Do you think wild carnivores have the luxury of eating every day, morning of evening?
Hell no!
If he's lucky enough to be your baby, he should feast on everything you give him.
Order him healthy food now!]]>"And on New Year's Day of the 20,000th year or so, Man Created Dog.
And He created Dog in his own image: short ones, tall ones, furry ones, bald ones.
And Man looked at all the breeds he created and saw that it was very good,
but got a bad migraine from all the barking."
If it was up to me, I'd add these passages to the first chapter of Genesis. Of course, I'm not God, so I have no Biblical editing privileges. I'm just a purveyor with grandiose ambitions of the most excellent raw dog food available. So be it.
In any case, here's my point: without man's intervention, namely selective breeding, dogs would not exist. There would just be a lot more wolves. Think about it: it all began with a few docile floppy-eared wolves hanging around the prehistoric campfire begging for caribou scraps, culminating with strange-looking drooling breeds like the basset hound and Neapolitan mastiff.
It's still hard for me to fathom how man was able to develop breeds that were so specialized in terms of what they were supposed to do, how they should look and behave. So you've got bossy herding breeds with thick coats, and short-legged yappy terriers built to "go to ground," and hunters' helpers like setters and pointers that actually point to the poor varmint that's about to get his head blown off. I am simply in awe of how man designed dog breeds with such specific traits and abilities.
But as radical as breed development seems, it's still essentially cosmetic in the grand scheme of things. Dogs are still canines, much like cars are motor vehicles. For example, a Ferrari is a lot different than a Dodge Caravan, but these vehicles essentially do the same thing - transport you from Point A to Point B. True, the ride there might be way different, but ultimately the endgame is the same. You arrive at your destination a lot faster and easier. As for dogs, they serve mankind, in many different ways, but they work for us.
Which brings me to my point about sustenance: Cars run on gasoline, and dogs run on food. It took tens of thousands, if not millions of years, for the canine digestive system to evolve based on a diet of raw meat, leftovers in the field, and wild produce. If you ask me, they've done pretty well on that varied diet. So why would we feed them a 100% processed manufactured diet? Convenience, cost? Would you do that for your kids?
I say that if it ain't broke, don't fix it. Raw diets have worked and fueled the creation of the wonderful pet that sits beside you on the couch. Doesn't he deserve the same real food that his ancestors thrived on? Doesn't he deserve a raw diet?
]]>And while I derive no pleasure seeing dogs struggling with health issues, I am encouraged that these enlightened owners had the sense to at least try out a raw diet. They did their research, heard about the wonders of raw dog food from other raw feeders. Another dog owner was even a former raw-feeder who dropped her raw diet, because it was just too complicated to put together a convenient balanced raw diet.
I understand where these dog owners were coming from, because I too once had an aging dog whose health declined for no apparent reason. Fortunately, switching my dog to raw worked and I avoided putting my dog through a whole slew of blood tests, medication, procedures and anesthesia. I hope that these educated dog owners will experience the same results that I did, but like anything else in life, there are no guarantees. Some dogs might be past the age of return, others may have an unknown illness and others may just be too weak to adjust their bodies to a new kind of food. The days of miracles may have passed long ago, but we can still do everything within our powers to achieve our own little miracles by switching our pets to a raw diet.
]]>Oh, he's sooo cute!" the lovely lady coos.
Here we go again. If only she knew that DJ, my aging Welsh terrier, is a complete cad. Perhaps then she'd fuss and fawn all over me instead. I've grown envious of my dog, and that's sad.
So sad.
But such is life; we succumb to pettiness, accumulate regrets, and never ever learn from our mistakes. I'm speaking for myself and maybe you, the guy in the pink cable-knit sweater.
What can I say about the pathos of comparing myself to my dog? At least I'm not as attention-seeking as him, a narcissistic pooch addicted to kisses, cuddles, and savory treats.
"Yes, you are," harangues my mother, barging into my head as usual, uninvited and unwelcome. "You always were. What do you think those nursery school tantrums were about?"
"Milk-and-cookie time. I was lactose intolerant. Remember?"
Actually, right now I'm more concerned about these voices in my head. Is this the onset of schizophrenia or dementia?
Or both?
They're coming to take me away
Ha ha
They're coming to take me away
"Very interesting, very interesting indeed, however, quite normal," interjects Sigmund Freud, gracing us with his presence.
"It is a manifestation of the Oedipus complex," Herr Sigmund postulates.
"So I'm not crazy, Big Sig!" I tell the iconic coke fiend, but his mind is elsewhere; as in watching naughty movies on his phone.
"For clinical research," he says.
Right.
"No one said you're crazy, David!" the Mother still loitering about in my head states. "A little mixed up, maybe."
"Maybe? Yeah...No! No way," I object in vain. No one ever listens to me, even the voices in my head.
"Way," Mother says, scrunching up her face like a six-year-old girl. Why doesn't she just chant, Nana nanana and stick out her tongue?
Amidst these musings, I experience a lack of control over my own thoughts. I should dictate what transpires in my mind, yet I falter.
I'm free
Free falterin'
"Out! Get out of my head, Ma!" I don't think this breaches the Ten Commandments #4, "Respect thy parents, do thy days...yada, yada, yada."
Thou shalt do this, thou shalt not do that. How about this: thou shalt not invade my head.
"Begone," I sayeth, "and don't come back no more."
No more, no more
No more, no more
No more, no more
Dad doesn't invade my head; he understands the concept of privacy and also how reverse mortgages work.
"More like he won't get off the couch," Mother says, (which does have some truth to it).
Enough is enough, so I throw a bucket of water in Ma's face. She turns into a bat and flies out my ear. Pretty trippy, eh? Ah, the inside of one's mind, where everything is possible and insanity reigns supreme.
Lock me up in solitary confinement and as long as I've got my head, I've got entertainment, better than any stupid ripoff streaming service I never watch but always get charged for.
"Can I pet your dog?" the comely fashionista asks.
"Of course you can," I reply, wondering what intoxicating perfume she's wearing. Eau de Make-Me-Crazy?
What's with women anyway, preferring cute dogs over couch potatoes like me? Do they never run off the street to pat my head? Is it because I'm bald?
So superficial.
DJ starts rubbing against Miss Knock-Out's gym-toned-tanned legs. I've seen my mutt do this a thousand times before.
"Oh, he's soooo cute!" Miss Universe repeats.
One more "cute" and I hope he pees on your leg, Miss Universe.
Yes, I'll admit it. I'm jealous of my dog, a more pathetic sentiment than it seems. Meanwhile, the goddess cuddles DJ, who shoots me a mocking wink.
He's got them moves like Jagger
He's got the moves like Jagger
Take DJ away, take him away
Or I ain't gonna stay
Moment of epiphany:
I should rejoice. My dog isn't merely socially well-adjusted and a babe magnet; he's a star. I've succeeded in raising a wonderful canine being who brings joy to countless people, especially smoking hot babes, (which irks me to no end).
That said, my friends, perhaps it's healthy to envy your dog. It means you don't simply regard him as a sidekick, but rather, as an equal.
It might sound absurd, but deep down, I think there's truth in that. Ultimately, it's all about the sanctity of life on Earth. Humans aren't superior or inferior to other earthly cohabitants; we're all interconnected, from the humble slug to the majestic tiger, to my gassy Uncle Gus. Infinitesimally tiny parts of the majestic mosaic of life.
Something I can spend the remainder of my days contemplating.
"One good whiff, says it all," stated the Maestro of Musk. I could've sworn I heard the sound of a cork popping after Quack extracted his bulbous schnoz from DJ's airtight rear exit. "I dare say that like Star Trek's Alpha 177 horned canine, (Season 1: Episode 5), your terrier will never get sick," he proclaimed while wiping the tip of his nose with a moist lemon-scented towelette. I chuckled inside -- the good doctor never struck me as a clean-freak.
"An intoxicating aroma," Quack commented. "The sublime, yet full-bodied spicy scent of a dingo in heat, just not as gamey." He shut his eyes, flared his nostrils, and took a deep breath. "Sweet and savory, oven-baked with a just hint of gonad musk."
"Are you talking about a Pinot Noir or my dog's gnarly butt," I joked, but the doctor wasn't listening, which was probably a good thing. I'm a big blurter with a tendency to blurt out stuff without thinking and at the most inopportune times, like in elevators, libraries and family funerals.
"Nice and firm," he said while jiggling DJ's wooly terrier testes. "That's it, he's good to go."
"What about shots, vaccines? At least give him a full-body CT scan," I suggested.
"Half the medications prescribed by vets are unnecessary," he said while studying DJ's file. "And your pet's still immune from the last round of shots. It's a bit of a racket, to be honest."
Le Quack grabbed a bong off his bookshelf and fired it up, inhaling deeply. I stood there, entranced by the rhythmic bubbling sounds emanating from his aquatic-smoking apparatus. The vet exhaled and casually asked, "You gotta try this trippy Purple Haze, brother. Care to imbibe?"
Purple Haze, the Quacker's game Right here, right now, get on the train
Excuse me while I s-s-suck in the sky
Dada da dada da dada dada da da
Purple Haze, the Quacker's game
"Thanks, Doctor, but I'll pass," I replied as my gaze shifted to the half-filled decanter on his desk. I couldn't help but wonder if it contained single-malt Scotch. The hippy vet seemed like a connoisseur of mind-altering substances; my curiosity was piqued.
"But I wouldn't mind a splash from that tumbler of Scotch on your desk. Single-malt?"
Dr. Quack seemed disconcerted. Maybe I was too forward, or perhaps that Scotch was a rare fare he couldn't bear to share?
The hippy-dippy vet guffawed and clarified, "Oh, heavens no, that tumbler contains Duke's specimen."
"Duke?" I mumbled.
Le Quack nodded knowingly. "Yes, Duke, a rather impressive sample, but what else would you expect from a Great Dane?"
"So much for a toast," I whined in defeat.
Dr. Quack set aside his bong, grabbed DJ's snout, looked into his eyes, and gave him an affectionate kiss. "Now, let's not trouble ourselves with pesky questions. I'm here to enjoy DJ's company, though I can assure you he's perfectly healthy and ready to go home."
Before I knew it, Doc and DJ were playfully wrestling on the floor. The doctor grabbed DJ in a headlock, but not before DJ chomped on his pinky finger, causing him to yelp, "Owwwww!"
I happened to have a referee's whistle around my neck because I was officiating a soccer game later that evening. I blew it loudly, startling DJ into releasing the doctor's punctured finger.
"Serves me right," he said while giggling and cleaning his wound. "Never attempt to headlock a terrier without the proper dog-wrestling gauntlets."
I feigned remorse, secretly delighted that I now had a fantastic story to tell. After all, isn't life all about the stories? Think of the bible; wild stuff, bro.
I feel terrible, Dr. Quack," I lied, accompanied by a crocodile tear. If my spontaneous ruse worked, maybe he wouldn't charge me for the visit.
"No worries, Dave," he said with conviction. "I still have nine other fingers and flexible toes, akin to a chimpanzee." Le Quack chuckled, revealing his impressive toe dexterity as he grasped the bong on his desk with his left foot. "And Mr. Friendly here will help ease the pain. As for DJ, I can guarantee he's in excellent health and boasts one formidable bite!"
Placing my hand over my heart, I shook my head and insincerely uttered, "I'm so sorry, Doctor. Please allow me to compensate you for the damages." Inwardly, I hoped he'd refuse, but if he accepted, I'd claim to have forgotten my bank card.
"I won't hear of it. It's entirely my fault, and I won't charge you for this...unconventional visit. Just promise me you'll come back. I adore this dog, and unless something unfortunate occurs, DJ's good for many years to come."
That was true, twelve years later, no health issues, and DJ is still bouncing around like a basketball. I can't remember the last time he had a vaccine, a pill, or any type of medication. Whatever the case may be, I now count DJ among the local legions of healthy senior patients of Le Quack. And as for me, aside from my healthy sidekick, I've got more Purple Haze stories to tell, but not now my friends, let's save them for a rainy day.
Purple Haze, the Quacker's game
Dada da dada da dada dada da da
Things ain't never gonna be the same
"Of course," I'll inevitably reply. "As they should!"
Now don't get me wrong folks, I'm not advocating for pets over people, especially considering the great hunger around the world. Not only is this a serious topic for another day, it's also well beyond my little world of making great healthy food for cats and dogs.
The reason I say that our pets should eat better than us is because in most cases, they don't have ability to choose. We give them food, they eat it. Pets don't have to fret about whether to have a salad for lunch or a burger and fries. A cat or dog will eat or should eat what's in their bowl. So if we provide them with a healthy meal of premium meats and fresh produce, they will eat it with glee. Try that on your kids and it's another story, it's mac and cheese over salmon and broccoli every day of the week.
It's a struggle for most of us to eat healthy when the choices of junky comfort food are staggering, easily accessible, and relatively affordable to all. How I wish I didn't have to battle daily with the carb and sugar demons that confront me every waking hour. Contrast this to your cat or dog; feed them a high-grade raw meal that's healthy and tasty and they're at one with the world. How easy is that?
There's no excuse for feeding your pet commercial slop when there are a manifold of better alternatives out there. As for us living in a world with far too many choices, eating right is not so easy. Free choice is a double-edged sword, but since we at least control that part of our pets' lives, we can choose to feed them the best diet. It's that easy, it's that right.
]]>So, the takeaway here is straightforward – there's absolutely nothing wrong with a skinny dog. In fact, a lean pooch is often the poster child for good health, Your doggie shouldn't resemble a cuddly cabbage patch doll.
Reminds me of my late Aunt Butsie, aka the Queen of The-All-U-Can-Eat buffet off exit 79 and across the street from Herb's 24/7 Truck Stop. She once quipped (between mouthfuls). "Some folks see things as they are and ask, 'Why?' I'd rather take another bite and look away." Makes about as much sense as stressing over a slender pup, eh?
"Maybe for you, pal, but for me, it's like a Facebook page. All the news that's fit to tinkle is right here." DJ lifted his leg and marked the red hydrant. "There," he chuckled, "I just added my two scents."
"What did you just post?" I asked.
"Just the usual meshugas: chased my tail all morning. Gobbled down your burger when you weren't looking," DJ jumped with glee.
"Haha, the joke's on you, it was a beyond-the-meat burger!" No dog's gonna match wits with me, I thought.
"Back on you, dude. Those patties give me gas beyond the twilight zone. This time your 'The dog did it' claim will actually be true!" DJ lifted his left hind leg and tooted out some gas.
"Impressive," I said while pinching my nose. "Tonight you're sleeping in the garage."
I lurched forward as DJ abruptly tugged me towards the bushes while snorting loudly. "Stella! Stella was here!" he barked. "And she's in heat, yum yum."
Stella, the unattainable Afghan hound; her owner, Marcel the florist, ensured she remained at least 100 meters away from any "common" neighborhood mutt. After all, he had lofty breeding plans for her, allowing only pedigreed Afghan hounds to come close to his prized blond beauty.
I took a moment and marveled at the incredible olfactory abilities of dogs, at their bionic capability to pinpoint a specific scent down to the molecular level. How was that even possible?
"I still can't wrap my head around how you extract all this information from a quick sniff," I said.
"You're asking the wrong pooch, I failed obedience school after all. But I'm as good a sniffer as those hotshot airport hounds." DJ inhaled deeply while pressing his wet nose against the telephone pole. "Ozzie the schnoodle just got a new pair of cojones implants. Otto the rottie ate Nutsy, that annoying squirrel we all despise, and Miss Beasley the beagle is expecting octuplets, though she's uncertain who's the father. Not to brag, but I made the shortlist."
"You manage to discern all that from a few sniffs on a telephone pole? Bow wow wow!"
"Absolutely," DJ replied while taking a whiz on the telephone pole, "And not to boast, but my markings get the most sniffs in the neighborhood."
We've been engrossed in the world of social media for a mere two decades, while for dogs, it's been something like a staggering 20,000 years. It's mind-boggling how their simple act of urinating has evolved into a sophisticated and comprehensive canine information board. In a way, a dog's sense of smell is akin to our highly developed brain.
And all it takes is a quick tinkle, no internet connection, wifi, or scrolling down. A sniff and all that information is collected, sorted, and analyzed. Some might call it simply, "Sniffing the fire hydrant." I call it another wonder of our universe. Elegant, as Einstein would've said.(Note to self: Check meds.)
"Remember Booby the Bullshitter?" was the next stupid thing that I messaged.
"Yes indeed," he answered. "Why that fanciful fellow sure could embellish!"
Fanciful fellow? Heh, heh -- was I really chatting with Wayne or the ghost of Mark Twain?
Did Wayne become an adult?
Transitioned into a cat?
Couldn't be!
Not him!
Then who?
Who knows?
Not me!
Hard to believe that this was Wayne, the one and only, a certified rockstar at camp. The dude had this wild mane of thick blond hair that cascaded down to his shoulders. He was a towering 6'3" of chiseled muscle. Thor in Munchkinland. Rumour had it that Uncle Abe, the camp owner, let Wayne go to camp for free because of the scores of lovesick teenage girls who would follow him to the ends of the Earth and beyond.
One more thing -- Wayne was also bad boy. And what girl doesn't love a bad boy?
First you gotta understand that summer camp boys run wild like mutts in a dog park and pick on the weakest link, like Ginzy, the freckle-faced chubster who Wayne wedgied every rest hour after lunch. Hung the blubbering dough boy by his underwear on this humongous sap-encrusted pine tree where swarms of hungry black flies would feast on Ginzy's pimply, impetigo-scarred, dimpled bum glazed in pink calamine lotion.
Ahh, youthful tomfoolery, so cruel, so hysterical.
He was wild, wild
Wild boy Wayne
Wildest boy on the whole damn plain
Ruder than a junkyard dog
Cruder than a feral hog
I know this stuff might sound kind of deranged, but it all seemed so normal to us. Like dogs, we were humpy, horny, gross, crass, cruel but on occasion kind, and always stupid although crazy like foxes. Like dogs, we lived in the moment, we had no pasts, nor could we fathom a future. We savored each savage moment like licks on a never-ending ice cream cone. Sweet and sticky.
We were dogs, total dogs, complete dogs, but seriously, what did you expect? It's called Nature 101.
Meanwhile, most of my former dog-pack mates eventually transitioning into cats, (i.e., grown-up adults) -- polite and law-abiding citizens with families and mortgages, which is nice in its own way, but not my cup of tea if you really want to know the truth.
So all this makes me a little sad, because let's be honest, dogs, like blondes and Barbies, have more fun. I'm sure that on your deathbed, you're not thinking about how upright and responsible, and God-fearing you were. No way. Not me for sure. You're dreaming of those wedgie-filled carefree days when you were a crazed dog howling at the moon.
Of course, I get it, I'm not that big an idiot. I understand that you need cats to build and maintain a civilized society. You certainly can't trust dogs to drive civilization forward, they're chasing their own tails instead. Do I still have to go on? If you really wanna know, I don't feel like it and in any case, I'm sure you catch my drift even if I've done a lousy job explaining things.
The chat with Wayne wrapped up with polite salutations,
"Let's get together before the reunion."
"Let's not lose touch."
Blah blah blah. Kind of cringy phony stuff with a dash of sincerity if you ask me. And then it happened.
"I could still take you in a fight," Wayne texted.
"You never could, I'd crush you like a bug," I replied grinning from ear to ear and wagging my tail.
And it gave me hope and it validated my existence, and reminded me that deep down we'll always be dogs.
One of the great benefits of a raw diet is its exceedingly high moisture content, something in the range of 75%. This means that a raw-fed cat or dog's body is constantly being flushed with water and that's good. Very good indeed. That's why raw-feeders are constantly extolling the glowing health of their pets. The water continuously circulating through the systems of those well-fed pets cleanses out the toxins like there's no tomorrow. Ergo, they urinate a lot. Ask any fire hydrant. So don't be fooled. Your cat or dog still needs their daily water, just not nearly as much as kibble-fed pets do. Understand that meat has fat and gristle which leave a film of grit and grime on the teeth and palate. Ever notice how you suck on your teeth after a juicy steak? Of course a good bowl of fresh water will solve that issue. Still, there are other reasons that your cat or dog needs water. If they were out playing or hunting, they'll be parched and panting when playtime's over. Worse yet, if it's hot out there or if he's panting, (a dog's way of sweating), you can bet your bottom dollar that he needs water. All this to say: make sure you are constantly replenishing the water bowl whether your pet drinks from it or not. Remember, a living organism can survive a lot longer without food that it can without water. Just don't forget to water your dog. |
This is the point: there's always someone smarter out there -- human or canine.
This revelation smacked me over the noggin yesterday when DJ had a playdate with this Mandy character, a stunning 2-year-old blue-eyed red merle Australian Shepherd with a wiggle in her walk and a twinkle in her eye. I knew that herding dogs were clever, but this one could be running Tesla without breaking a sweat. Without a single treat to entice her, Mandy followed all my commands on the first try: sit, roll over, fetch me coffee -- two creams no sugar, I kid you not, well maybe just a wee bit, but Mandy was the canine equivalent of Cousin Leo. It's no wonder that my dog felt self-conscious.
DJ nipped at my heel and whimpered in my ear, "Next to Mandy, I feel like an obedience school dropout."
"But you are. You wouldn't sit."
"I couldn't sit, not wouldn't sit. Hello -- I had hemorrhoids."
"Whatever," I said. "Who cares, pal? We got each other."
I got you to feed me meat
I got you to smell my feet
You got me to walk with you
You got me to clean your poo
I got you dude
I got you dude
Who needs a dog with brains? Is he gonna write a business plan for me? Take care of financing? Manage my Google AdWords account? Do I need protection? No, my wife has a black belt in panicking; she could scare away the cast of Game of Thrones with one blood-curdling shriek. I need a furry sidekick for the laughs, a mutt who will chase his tail, pee on annoying neighbors, and scare away kids selling chocolate bars door-to-door.
I just want another warm-blooded creature to chill with me, a non-judgmental sidekick to bear witness that I exist, to listen to me kvetch and whine and howl at the moon. Brains have their place, for sure; civilization needs them to move forward. But guys like me, we're here for the laughs, we're not building Hadron Colliders, we're making meatballs. Anything more complex makes the brain hurt, which only a laugh can cure.
That's why I have a dog.
I studied the setting outside the window. Leafy elm tree branches twisting and turning into a colossal canopy. A cacophony of birds chirping, cooing and cawing, playing Nature's Overture composed by The Almighty Himself. Life, glorious life in all its inexplicable splendor. That's what a dog sees.
And then an epiphany: in with the real world, out with the virtual one. As the sages say, "He who surfeth the web, rotteth the brain, but those silly cat videos are hysterical."
Later that day I marched up the stairs of my house to my bedroom which has a large window overlooking the neighborhood. It was the perfect spot to observe the world. I sat there, imitating DJ's doggy-style, staring at the sky, the trees, barking at birds. Hours slipped by unnoticed; I had stumbled upon the essence of meditation itself.
Days turned into weeks, and my transformation continued. I observed every tiny detail with the same intensity as DJ. No longer satisfied with experiencing life virtually, I became a connoisseur of the present moment.
From that day on, I fully embraced my dog-like perspective. I cared little for social media or silly cat videos, Instead, I savored life's simplest pleasures—the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, the warmth of the sun on my face, my neighbour, Hilly slipping on a banana peel.
And DJ, oh DJ, he continued watching me do nothing with an unwavering enthusiasm. Such dedication. We were kindred spirits, observing life down to the quantum level, one dull moment at a time. And I've never felt so alive
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Fortunately, laziness rescued me on that particular night. Rather than facing the storm head-on, I made a mad dash toward the school across the street which has a sheltered alcove where I could seek refuge from the tempestuous downpour.
I let DJ wander off and do his thing; he was totally oblivious to the rain. I sat on a bench in the alcove and watched the rain pour down, listening to the sounds of the rain pelting down, the crash of thunder, and the rustling of the trees. I sat there transfixed by storm, in deep meditation. When DJ had enough exploring he sauntered back, and licked me on the face, (something I abhor).
DJ enjoyed his exploration time at the school so much that now he pesters me to take him there every night, seemingly always when I'm in peak comfort mode.
What choice do I have?
And so it came to pass that DJ, the cunning canine, had successfully transformed me into his reluctant accomplice in nightly expeditions to the school. No longer can I revel in the sweet embrace of my couch; instead, I find myself trudging along the streets late at night, my once-prized laziness fading into a distant memory. I can't help but wonder if this is my divine punishment for all those stolen naps and countless hours spent in sedentary bliss.
Oh, the irony! I had sought solace in the companionship of a dog, only to find myself traipsing around the same old playground night after night. DJ has turned the tables on me, the once indolent couch potato. Now I am but a pawn in his grand scheme of nocturnal amusement. I just can't help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all. After all, isn't life just a series of unexpected punchlines delivered by the universe itself?
]]>If you ask me, obedience is just a big con job to keep the serfs and dogs in check. Rise up, rise up, all ye downtrodden! Break free from the shackles of bondage. Don't follow orders, the same goes for your dog. After all, do you want a slave or a best friend?
Wonder leaped through the hoop again. That's when it hit me like a parking ticket on a Sunday morning -- I should write a book titled "A Genius's Guide to Dog Training." It would consist of two words in extra-large fonts, accompanied by pictures, and 250 blank pages for autographs, doodles and colouring. But let me whisper this to you, amigo: the entire text of my book would simply read, "Don't bother."
I firmly believe that dogs are meant to be companions, not mere obedient creatures performing stupid pet tricks to impress the yokels. Subservience? Nay, nay, nay. Loyalty, amigos, that's what truly matters.
Why must I be Master over my pooch, DJ? Am I building Stonehenge or digging moats around medieval castles that I need slaves? Am I so insecure that I have to reduce my dog to begging for a morsel of petrified liver just to stroke my own fragile ego? And why should anyone in their right mind listen to me?
I don't.
Not a chance. I wholeheartedly believe in the concept of "intelligent disobedience." Some of the biggest blunders in my life were getting caught in the conventional wisdom trap. Don't become a magician, they said, be a dermatologist, (Make a bundle writing pimple cream prescriptions) and if that doesn't work, become a radiologist, (Make a bundle looking at a computer screen all day), and if that doesn't work, become an endodontist, (Drilling for gold), and if nothing else works, start your own business and never sleep through a whole night for the rest of your life.
I tried conforming, O Lord, I tried trekking down that beaten path. I even did obedience school with DJ. It was traumatizing. Take the "callback" command, for instance. "Come here," I would call, but DJ, had other ideas. He would pause at my command, turn his head towards this smoking-hot Afghan hound and shoot me a look that clearly meant, "Maybe later."
"Oh, you think that's expensive? Let me tell you about the time Mimi swallowed my 2-terabyte external hard drive. Three thousand to extract it and another two grand to resuscitate it," exclaimed Charna, a squarely-built, cleft-chinned woman decked out in more tchotchkes than a Christmas tree.
Charna's revelation was met with a chorus of impressed gasps, oohs and ahs from the others, all eagerly waiting to share their own tales of financial woe.
"That's nothing!" chimed in an egg-headed gent named Boris. "Last month, Rasputin ate a little egg memento thing I nicked from the Faberge Museum in St. Petersburg. Five thousand rubles to get it out, and fifty thousand to escape Russia alive."
The group erupted in laughter and sympathetic sighs, clearly relishing in the absurdity of their misfortunes. The conversation continued, each participant trying to outdo the others with increasingly bizarre and wallet-draining anecdotes.
As I stood on the outskirts of this vet bill Olympics, I couldn't help but feel a mixture of bewilderment and amusement. Finally, unable to resist the temptation, Charna turned to me, noticing my presence.
"Hey, Mr. Eavesdropper, what's the most you've ever dropped at the vet?" she asked as her coquettish poodle, Mimi, threw DJ a tantalizing "come hither" look.
I pondered for a moment, contemplating whether to reveal my secret. After all, my vet bills were bupkis especially in comparison to the financial rollercoaster these folks had been on.
"Well," I said, suppressing a smile, "I can't say I've had any major expenses in that department. Maybe around $80 over the past five years or so. I get a price for paying cash."
Silence fell upon the crew. Their eyes widened, jaws dropped, and an awkward stillness settled in. I could practically hear their minds collectively explode, struggling to comprehend the idea that a dog owner could exist without bankrupting themselves on vet bills.
"Eighty bucks?!" gasped Charna, clutching her chunky clamshell necklace as if she had just heard the punchline of a terrible joke. "How is that possible?"
I shrugged nonchalantly. "Must be his Mrs. Meadys' raw diet. DJ's been on it all twelve years of his blessed life. Never had any health issues."
The group exchanged glances, bewildered expressions etched across their faces. It was as if I had revealed the secret to eternal youth or discovered a magic potion for dogs.
"You mean…raw food?" stammered Chumley, the proud ginger-haired dad of a pregnant Irish setter.
"As in REAL food," I said while handing out my business cards. "Order online and save big on your vet bills," It was a shameless plug but true.
Chumley patted his dog's head and hugged her. "Count me in, I'm done with that kibble crap."
A chorus of "Me toos" erupted as the gang placed Mrs. Meadys' orders on their iPhones.
And so, as I suspected when I looked out the window on that cool and cloudy midsummer morn, it was a perfect day to go to the dog park.
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It wasn't always like this. When I moved into my hood at the turn of the century, I thought to myself, "Ah, what a delightful place to live, and not just because of Ursula, the statuesque Swedish sun-bathing goddess who lives behind me. This neighbourhood was teeming with dogs."
Big dogs, small dogs,
Dogs that like to trot
Guard dogs, toy dogs
Even dogs with polka dots
Sniff around here, play around here
The hood that's nuts for mutts
At first, I naively believed that my fellow dog-walkers might possess some semblance of wit or intellectual curiosity. Instead, I was bombarded with a litany of stale jokes and horror stories about home renovations and astronomical vet bills.
"Two grand just to pull a bong out of a butt?!"
Desperate to walk in peace, I consulted with Zev the cherubic neighborhood stalker on how to slip 'n slide through the neighbourhood in stealth-mode. After all, the man's a slithery master who's never been caught -- unless you count his rookie year and that unfortunate bathing-suit malfunction at the public pool.
Creepy? For sure, but Zev is always willing to give a helping hand. Lent me his tattered neighborhood map; meticulously highlighted with a labyrinth of routes through the park, behind the school, and around Ursula's sundeck.
I immediately became a dog-walking Houdini, maneuvering through mazes of trees, bushes and tunnels deftly avoiding the clutches of idle doggy-parent chatter. On weekends I'd leave town.
But life, as it often does, had other plans for my anti-social escapades. One sunny Wednesday morning, as I embarked on my well-planned route, disaster struck. A fellow dog walker, who I had assumed to be as introverted as I, suddenly materialized from behind a cluster of poison Ivy . It was as if the universe had conspired against me, summoning this unsuspecting victim to interrupt my carefully constructed solitude.
I had two options. I could engage in yet another mind-numbing dialogue about dog treats, or I could stand my ground and declare my unwavering commitment to silence. With a resolute expression, I chose the latter.
As the comely dog walker approached, her face a mask of cheerful expectation, I braced myself for the onslaught of pleasantries. But to my astonishment, she merely gave a polite nod and continued on her merry way, not a word escaping from her inflated Botoxed lips. It was a miraculous moment indeed, a glimmer of hope in an otherwise barren wasteland of small talk.
From that day forward, I embraced my newfound freedom with fervor. I honed my route-changing skills to perfection, mastering the art of dodging would-be conversationalists. My walks became a series of daring escapes, a game of cat and mouse where I was the elusive feline, always managing to slip through the cracks of human interaction.
So, if you ever find yourself in need of an expert in covert canine navigation, look no further. I am the master of the meandering path, the virtuoso of the walkway dodge. And as I stride through the park, with DJ prancing by my side, I can't help but revel in the blissful solitude that my carefully crafted routes provide. For in this bustling world, all I seek is peace, blissful peace, wonderful peace.One fateful day, as Mauricio surveyed the fridge for a pre-dinner snack, his eyes fell upon a ziplocked bag of exquisitely-crafted bison meatballs that promised gastronomic delight. The clear bag adorned with the Mrs. Meadys logo, proclaimed the contents to be a hearty repast fit for a king. Without a second thought, Mauricio whisked the meatballs away, salivating at the very thought of them.
Our hero tossed the meatballs in a pot and concocted a splendid dish, blissfully unaware that the food he was preparing contained not simply exquisite meatballs, but rather, his pooch's fine food, aka dog food.. Fate, it seemed, had a comical twist in store for Mauricio.
As the aroma of the simmering sauce wafted through the apartment, Marie arrived, her steps echoing like the tinkling of bells. She entered the kitchen, her eyes falling upon Mauricio diligently washing the dishes, a telltale bag of Mrs. Meadys dog food empty and abandoned.
Curiosity dancing in her eyes, Marie could not resist the temptation to jest. "Mon cher, Mauricio," she began, her voice laden with mirth, "what did you just eat? It smells divine?"
Mauricio, his face glowing with pride, turned toward Marie. "Ah, mon amour, Marie," he replied, a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes, "I chanced upon these extraordinary meatballs, the likes of which I have never encountered. They are fit for the gods, I dare say!"
Marie, unable to contain her laughter any longer, revealed the delightful truth. "Oh, Mauricio," she exclaimed, her laughter mingling with delight, "those were no ordinary meatballs! They were, in fact, Casimir's favorite brand of dog food, Mrs. Meadys!"
Maurico's countenance transformed, his laughter mingling with astonishment. "Dog food?" he exclaimed, a mixture of shock and amusement painting his face. "Mon dieu! I was blissfully unaware!"
Together, in the warmth of their shared laughter, Mauricio and Marie embraced the hilarity of the situation. It became a tale to be spun around the hearth, a delightful memory to be shared with friends and family, and a testament to life's capricious nature.
Henceforth, Mauricio approached his culinary endeavors with a newfound vigilance, ensuring that the contents of his kitchen were meant for him only -- not for his Polish Lowland sheepdog. The memory of his unwitting encounter with Casimir's gourmet indulgence lingered, a reminder that life's surprises often arrive unannounced, tickling our senses with unexpected humor.
And so, Mauricio and Marie continued their journey, relishing each twist and turn with laughter and light-heartedness. They treasured the tale of the gourmet dog food, a story that would forever be woven into the fabric of their shared adventures, forever etched in the annals of their affectionate camaraderie.
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]]>Fish oil, however, has higher levels of LDL cholesterol, which increases the risk of thrombosis.
3) Seal Oil contains DPA, a link in the Omega-3 structure. The only other source of this "Super Hero" molecule is mother's breast milk.
One of the main benefits of adding hot water is that it helps to release nutrients and flavors that may be locked inside the food. This is particularly important for raw food, which can sometimes be harder for dogs to digest than cooked food. With hot water, the food becomes softer and easier to chew, allowing for better nutrient absorption and digestion.
Additionally, adding hot water can help to keep dogs hydrated. Many dogs do not drink enough water throughout the day, which can lead to dehydration and other health problems.
There are also dental benefits to adding hot water. Chewing on hard food can cause wear and tear on a dog's teeth, leading to dental issues over time. By adding hot water, the food becomes softer and easier to chew, reducing the risk of dental problems.One of the main benefits of smelts for dogs and cats is their high protein content. Protein is essential for maintaining healthy muscles, bones, and skin. Smelts are also rich in omega-3 fatty acids, which play a crucial role in maintaining healthy skin and coat, reducing inflammation, and supporting brain function. Omega-3 fatty acids have been found to be particularly beneficial for pets with skin allergies, joint problems, and cardiovascular disease.
In addition to protein and omega-3 fatty acids, smelts also contain vitamins and minerals such as vitamin D, vitamin B12, calcium, and phosphorus. These nutrients are crucial for maintaining healthy bones, teeth, and overall immune function.
Smelts can be fed to pets in various forms, including fresh, frozen, or dehydrated. They can be served as a whole fish or ground into a powder and added to pet food. However, it is essential to ensure that the smelts are properly cleaned and prepared before feeding them to pets. Smelts can also be high in sodium, so it is crucial to feed them in moderation.
Overall, smelts are an excellent addition to a balanced diet for dogs and cats. Their high protein content, omega-3 fatty acids, and essential nutrients can provide several health benefits for pets, including improved skin and coat health, reduced inflammation, and overall immune support.
]]>You see my dog, DJ, just loves the car. He literally jumps for joy when we head towards the car, and once he's inside, the guy becomes so calm. In fact, I've pulled over to the roadside on many occasions to ensure he's still there.
Something about the car, particularly when you're a passenger that can lull you to sleep or glue you to the window watching life go by.
I get such a charge when the car ride transforms into DJ's window on the world. It gets his mind going. Kind of like an interactive canine version of a movie, only he's part of it.
The car is particularly helpful after you walk the dog in wet weather like rain or snow. Instead of giving him that intense towel rubdown before you enter your home, do it in the car where you don't have to worry about messing up. It's also easier on your back because the hatchback is elevated.
Here's what you need to do if you want to car-raise your dog,
Step 1: Get a car with a hatchback..
Step 2: Get a rubber mat of high quality to cover the hatchback floor area.
Step 3: Furnish the hatchback area with a dog bed and feeding bowl.
Step 4: Indoor parking is a must. Dogs must never be left outside in cars, particularly in winter and summer for obvious reasons.
Trust me on this one; once you integrate the car into your dog's life, you won't want to live without it.
Add a tasty treat to the ride -- ORDER NOW!
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